


Burn My Beating Heart

by bakerstreetashtray



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, First Time, Immortality, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, sherlock is immortal, trigger warning: self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-01
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-28 04:24:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 27,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/987615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bakerstreetashtray/pseuds/bakerstreetashtray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How did he survive the fall? A magician's trick. A scientific ruse..The excuses are rife, but John doesn't believe a single one that comes from his friend's lips.</p><p>Sherlock is immortal. And his secret is not safe.</p><p> </p><p>“Immortality: A toy which people cry for, And on their knees apply for, Dispute, contend and lie for, And if allowed Would be right proud Eternally to die for.”<br/>― Ambrose Bierce</p><p> </p><p>[baker-street-ashtray.tumblr.com]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stop

**JOHN**

 

I don't know how he did it.

 

Still, after all this time. The night he came back, he spun me some story. Fake blood and tricks with the positioning, but I know what I saw. What I felt. Sherlock threw himself from that bloody building, and I saw him die. Well. Dead. I went to his funeral, for Christ's sake. Sometimes I think he senses that I don't believe him; like when he mentions it and I go quiet. Or when  _he_  mentions it and I widen my eyes just so, purse my lips and look away.

We don't talk about it, because he'll only lie to me.

We carry on as before, but it isn't quite the same. There's a secret between us; a sugarcoated lie. An elephant in the room.

But it isn't only that.

 

If he moved with reckless abandon before, it's worse now. A hundred times worse. I'm fearing for our bloody lives on every case - which is awful, considering the circumstances. The thought of losing him again.. that pain coming back.. 

I'm different too. Harder, somehow. Ravaged by a grief that tore at me every day, ruined parts of me that I can't repair. And that grief was taken away so quickly; Sherlock's return an effortless quick fix. But it has scarred me. I can't pretend that it hasn't.

Each body I see morphs into his. Blood seeping from mouths and eyes, pooling in my hands until he places a hand on my shoulder and says my name anxiously. And again. Again and again, until I can regain some kind of composure, reach some part of myself that isn't damaged.

 

We never talk about it. 

I don't tell him that I cared about him more than was decent for a flatmate. Still do, probably. I'd tell you, if I could feel.

Sometimes, I think that fall broke me more than it did him.

 

No - I know that it did.

  
Six months after his return, things change.

 

\--

 

"Jooooooooooooohn."

 

His voice is an impatient whine on the other side of the door, and I'm buttoning my shirt as fast as I can, my chest still damp from my shower.

"Yes, I'm going as fast as I can, Sherlock." I call, a note of irritation saturating my words. It's bad enough that it's 7AM - and worse that I got almost no sleep last night. I have nightmares again, but they aren't about Afghanistan. Not any more. Emptiness haunts my sleeping mind now - a streak of blood on the pavement; the whistle of a long dark coat as it whips through the air. The Fall.

 

Those three months alone and humanity seeped from me like the last dregs of smoke from one of his blasted cigarettes. He's back, and I'm still broken. His magic tricks can't fix this.

 

"My crime scene will be contaminated by the time we get there." He replies haughtily through the door, and I can see him pacing, already entrenched in his bloody dark coat. God, it haunted me seeing him put that thing on again.

 

"I'm  _ready_."  
I snap, tugging open the door and grabbing my jacket to stalk past him. He keeps pace with me easily, and I give a disgruntled sigh.

"Where are we going?"  
"Ealing. A third murder." He replies simply, tucking his knotted scarf into his coat as we leave the flat. He tries to hide it, but I can hear the glee in his tone. A triple murder is Sherlock's chocolate cake. 

 

We walk down the stairs in silence. Lock the front door, duck into a cab, sit side by side in silence. My eyes are on the lines beside the pavement, watching them move monotonously and rhythmically alongside the taxi as we drive. Eventually, I come back to myself and glance over to find him watching me. His lips are pressed into a flat line, eyes narrowed just slightly but soft. It's an odd look; both concerned and uncomfortable and I bristle under his gaze.

"What?" I straighten the collar of my jacket and raise my eyebrows.

 

"You're not sleeping well." He says, more a statement than a question. It's not one of his best deductions, to be honest. I must have dark rings beneath my eyes. Hell, maybe I've yawned once or twice already. I haven't slept particularly well since he returned six months ago, but usually I can get a kip in the afternoons.

"No." I agree, and after a few silent seconds pass, resume my gaze out of the window.

 

"Stop."   
Sherlock says, and I glance over bemusedly, opening my mouth to ask 'stop what'.

"Stop the taxi." He raises his voice, and the driver looks back before pulling up onto the pavement. We're on the outskirts of Ealing and nowhere near  the crime scene.   
"Sherlock, what-"

"Get out of the car, John." He says calmly, and is examining the fingernails on one hand. I give an incredulous laugh, but he doesn't say anything else. The driver fidgets, obviously uncomfortable with whatever is going on. Well, that makes two of us mate.

 

"Right." I mutter, wondering if he's planning on leaving me here. Poor, broken army doctor. Can't even make it to the crime scenes any more.   
I open the door and climb out, slamming it and standing with my hands in my pockets.

 

To my surprise, Sherlock gets out too.

He walks to where I'm standing, and Christ, he must be inches away from me. 

 

That first night when he came back - when I bruised his jaw, and he put his arms around me.. this is the closest we've been, since.

Six months of careful boundaries, and now he's in my face. 

 

I open my mouth to ask something else, but he speaks before I can.  
"Are you planning on keeping this up for much longer?"

His words are lazy, and only slightly irritated. His gaze is cool on mine, his hands deep in his coat pockets and chin tilted just slightly. Immediately, I feel affronted.

 

Keep this up? Keep this up?  
Of course, I'd known he couldn't be blind to my suffering. I never said a word, and he never asked. I suppose I hoped that he might never ask. I don't think I could bear Sherlock's pity. Of course, now I realise that pity is the last thing that I'm going to get.

"You think I'm being miserable to bloody taunt you?" I near growl, my voice shaking angrily.

 

"Evidently, John."

"Ev-"

"We've hardly spoken for six months about anything unrelated to a case. Every evening, you disappear into your bedroom. You don't eat when I'm around and you rarely say anything of use on a crime scene. And now you stay up, seemingly to all hours, and are consequently near useless to me. Are you meaning to tell me that this isn't on purpose?"

 

My mouth is hanging agape after his little speech, the anger bubbling in my stomach. I can only summon a breathless incredulity, though my fingers curl into fists, stiff by my sides.

" _On purpose?_ "

"I have apologised for the fall - though you may want to remember that I saved your life. Six months is more than enough penance to pay for a three month absconsion, don't you agree?"

"My God..." I'm furious, though all that seems to be coming from my lips is incredulous laughter; exasperatedly bitter chuckles that I cover with a hand loosely to my lips, shaking my head. "My God, is that what you really think? That I'm - that this.."

 

He blinks back at me, though his expression remains the same mask of cool indifference and a hint of irritation. At my words, a flicker of uncertainty runs across his features.

 

"It is. It bloody is, isn't it?"  My words are soft, disbelieving. I am bloody livid. I imagine my eyes look somewhat crazed at the moment and shake my head again. I turn away, and start to walk. I don't have a clue where we are, not really, but I'd rather be attacked by a group of thugs than get into that taxi with him right now. 

 

"John?" He calls after me hesitantly after a few moments, but I keep walking straight and he doesn't follow.

"Have fun with your triple murder." I mutter under my breath, and turn a corner into nowheresville. 

 

\--

 


	2. Fall

**SHERLOCK**

 

I can't find it within myself to continue on to the case without John. I call Lestrade, ask him to seal off the scene and keep the body in the morgue until further notice. Of course, he is outraged at my supposed 'brashness', but I play my part well. I cannot have him knowing that I am deeply affected by John, and that his absence will likely hinder my deductions. I will play the arrogant amateur this time.

I return to Baker Street, but John is not home. I do not know whether this is because he is staying away, or if he merely has to find his way back from Acton Town. I put on the kettle, as I do extremely rarely, and sit in my armchair. I steeple my fingers at my lips and I wait.

 

It comes to pass that I am not gifted with patience. When John has failed to return after an hour, I am pacing the room, occasionally gracing the air with unpoetic outbursts. There is an unease within me, and it appeals to every good sense that I have. It screams 'wrong', and the feeling is unpleasant. I have been wrong. I have made a terrible mistake. John has not been purposely making life difficult for us both. I have upset him. 

 

I throw myself back down in the armchair and rest my elbows on my knees. I drag my hands through my hair and release an angered groan, knowing that I am at fault here. I am so rarely at fault. It is alien to me. I embody truth and correctness; seeing what others cannot see and using that talent for good. Even if my peers sometimes do not appreciate me. John has always appreciated me.

I should have told him the truth from the very outset. The night of my return.   
Even to my own ears, it would have sounded ridiculous. It  _is_  ridiculous. Completely illogical and utterly mindbending.   
I did not need the three months to protect John. His life was saved the moment I took the jump. The rest was merely insurance, taken care of in hours rather than days. The weeks turned into months, and I retreated into my own shell, struggling to comprehend my own existence. 

 

\--

 

_"This phone call - it's, er.. it's my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"_  
My voice shakes, my heart pounding rapidly. I don't want to leave him. I don't want to go like this.

"Leave a note, when?"  
John's voice is stiff. He knows exactly what I mean. Perhaps he is trying to buy time. But he is in the crosshairs of a rifle. The only time that can be bought is his own. His life. And the price is my demise.

__  
"Goodbye, John."  
My voice almost cracks, and my cheeks are wet. I have never felt so overwrought with emotion, and it feels rather ironically apt that it should be now of all times. The end of my life, and I finally begin to live. His name leaving my lips for the last time is torture, and I close my eyes momentarily.

"No. Don't."  
He is trying to remain composed, and I respect that even now, he does not lose his cool. But he must know that all is lost. A ripple of pain runs through my chest as I imagine that he will one day remember me as nothing more than a fake. It is what I have told him. My dreadful confession. Our time together smeared with blood and the memories of lives ruined. Of my false crimes. 

_It is all for you, John. I love you. I wish I could have told you.  
The only one. I am truly sorry._

 

_I toss away the phone, and I hear him shout my name, even from as high up as I am. It only spurs me on. I have to save his life._

Moriarty has won. I die in disgrace. But he will live on.  
Goodbye, John.

_I hold out my arms, and I let myself fall forwards._

\--   
John still isn't home. The cup of tea that I have made for him has been cold for hours, and my eyes settle on it, a guilty peace offering neglected on the coffee table. I hope that he is back soon.

 

I still do not know what I will say to him when he returns. If he returns.

 

Of course he will return. His things are all here.

 

The thought sends me sprawling from my chair and into his bedroom, and I pull open the wardrobe doors and his drawers, checking that his things are indeed all still there. Relieved, I fall onto the bed and my face finds his pillow. John's smell envelopes me and helps soothe the anxiety in my mind. I was wrong to accuse him of punishing me. I had not thought that John could keep up such an act for so long, but had assumed that I was merely wrong. Never thinking that he might truly be suffering.

 

But I am back. Why would he still be suffering?

\--

 

_When I wake, I am gasping for breath. There is cold metal beneath me and I immediately sit up, eyes wide and shaking. Was it a dream? The whole thing?_

Around me is dim white - if I was a religious man, I might think it was some sort of afterlife. But I am not, and it is clearly clinical. When Molly rounds the corner, clipboard in one hand and a tissue in the other, I have to throw myself from the slab to prevent her from screaming, clamping my hands over her mouth.

_I had requested it be Molly that deal with my body. Molly exclusively. I have met the other morticians, and did not desire any of them poking around inside me. Molly would treat me with dignity. Although now, that seems a little redundant. She wears no make-up, though streaks of black are smudged along the skin of her cheeks. I did tell her not to cry. She knew longer than anyone else that this would happen; she begged me to think of an alternative method._

_Now, she stares at me wide-eyed, my hand still over her mouth._

"Don't scream." I murmur, and she shakes her head infinitesimally. I remove my hand slowly, and she continues to stare. After a few seconds, she breathes the only word that she can seemingly manage. "How?"

"I don't know." I answer raggedly and honestly, logic and reality already raging a vicious battle in my mind. 

 

\--

 

When John finally returns, it's six in the evening. He's been gone all day, and I have driven myself mad pondering every possibility; had he gone to stay with Harry? Perhaps done something stupid? I should never have let him walk away. Into an unknown area, no less.

I am cursing myself when he walks through the front door, swaying slightly as he sets his keys down.

"Sher - lock." His tongue seems heavy in his mouth as he greets me, and I purse my lips. He is drunk. Unashamedly plastered.  
John sets down his keys and I rise, my arms folded loosely across my chest as I take a slow step over to him.

He waggles a finger at me reprovingly, and his eyes are glassy. I should put him to bed. I have driven him to extremes.

"Now, now." He slurs, "I'm r-really angry with you. Sir. Mister." He hiccups. "Sherlock."

"I see." I say smoothly, raising an eyebrow. I realise that I cannot put him to bed in this state. I must try and sober him up first. I place my hands on his shoulders and push him down into an armchair before heading into the kitchen.

Three minutes later, I return with strong coffee and push the mug firmly into his hands.

"Drink, John. You're embarrassing us both."

He swears at me, but gratefully takes a sip. I perch on the arm of the sofa, a hand to my lips, pensively examining his face. The bags beneath his eyes. The fresh lines that speak of anguish and pain. I feel a guilt. An irrepressible, terrible guilt. I should have come back sooner. Right away. I should have told the truth. There is still time.

"John-" I begin in earnest, but he interrupts me, an ounce of sobriety peeking through his drunken mask.

"Don't." He says simply, and I look away impatiently, my lips pursed. I wait until he has finished the coffee. His eyelids are beginning to droop, and I see that it is pointless to try to discuss anything with him in this state.

 

Resignedly, I walk over and slip an arm around his waist, the touch strange after so many months of keeping careful distance. He is a heavy weight, but aware enough to help support himself. The mug clatters to the floor. I make it to his bedroom and huff as I help set him down on the bed before pulling off his shoes and belt, and setting them on the floor. 

"Quite enough of that." I say with mock irritation, straightening my shirt. I am not angry. I am guilty. Nauseatingly so. John has been suffering on my account.

His head finds the pillow and he closes his eyes. I lower myself gingerly onto the bed and sit there for a moment, just looking at him. Looking at the damage that I have wrought.   
"C'mere." He slurs, motioning for me to come closer. His eyes are closed and I frown, wondering for a moment if he might swing a punch if I get close enough. But he cups a hand to his mouth - he wants to whisper something to me.

 

I roll my eyes and lean in, only for John to move closer and press his lips to mine. I tense, not daring to move.  
I am not sure if he means it; but then a warm hand slips to the back of my neck, and I can't help but sigh into his mouth; return every ounce of feeling that he is offering me. His lips are warm and soft, and he tastes very faintly of whiskey. 

 

After a few moments, he breaks the kiss and I recoil, shocked at myself. Shocked at John. My heart is pounding, my friend's taste still on my lips. I had never imagined.. never thought that he might.. This is an entirely new complication and I-

"I knew it." He murmurs, a smile tugging at his lips. His eyes are still closed, and seconds later he is snoring.

 

 I take a few moments to recover, before leaning down to pull the covers over his shoulders. I turn off the light, and I leave, my heart still pounding rather ferociously in my chest.

 

\--


	3. Push

**JOHN**

 

When I wake up, the room is so bloody bright. I have to squint for a few minutes and quickly realise that I'm still in a shirt and -

Oh. I realise rather quickly from the pounding headache that I went out drinking last night. Luckily, I don't think I'm going to throw up. But Christ - has it always been that bright in here?

With a groan, I sit up and glance at the bedside table. A glass of water. With ice cubes. Two painkillers sitting beside it.   
 _Sherlock?_

The memory hits me like a ton of bricks, and my heart plummets into my stomach. I raise both hands first to my mouth, and then to run through my hair. Shit. Oh - fuck. Did I really - Oh. Fucking hell.

Months of bloody hating him. Months of being unable to stand being around him, but being so bloody happy, so relieved that he wasn't.. dead. And this stupid secret, the bloody lies. Ruining whatever friendship was left. And now.. now?!  
Well, this makes things worse.   
He's going to think I'm bonkers. Completely lost it.

 

I resolve to deal with things one step at a time, and take the pills. I drink the water and dash out to the bathroom to shower.

 

When I finally emerge from my bedroom again, I am cleanly dressed; a mask for my utter horror and awful hangover.

 

Sherlock sits in his armchair, wearing his black trousers and a pale blue shirt. He looks bloody immaculate as always, and it makes me feel debauched. His eyes find me when I enter, his fingers steepled at his lips. For a moment, an insane moment, I think that he doesn't remember. Or at least that he won't mention it.

 

"We need to talk." 

Oh, hell.

 

  
**\--**   
**SHERLOCK**   


 

After the fall, I spent the majority of those three months trying out new methods. Molly helped. She was rather useful actually; her knowledge of death and the variety of experience made for interesting trials. Something that never fades though, is the pain.

 

Each death is painful. Even when I know that I will return; no particular piece of knowledge can soften the blow of a bullet or the slice of a scalpel. The pills still prompt convulsions and painful retching before I am taken into the darkness. Those parts of the trials are never enjoyable, but are necessary. Science is an art form, and every artist must suffer for his craft. I find my predicament both illogical and fascinating, and have struggled with it on a daily basis since. It is a philosophical nightmare.

After those three months, I had truly been pulled apart at the seams. Every way possible, I had died. And every time; resurrected. Even when Molly removed organs. The heart was different; it took me a week to return. Molly had returned it to my body after an hour or so, frantic that I had not come back. I was sluggish for days. That may be my undoing, I fear. But for now, I am as near to invincible as possible.

 

It is only fair that John knows. 

 

He emerges from his bedroom, his hair wet and clothes clean yet rumpled. He is the incarnation of sleepy Sunday mornings, and I cannot help the frisson that runs through me at the sight of him and the memory of last night. I pray that he remembers. And then rather hurriedly, I pray that he does not.

 

I tell him that we need to talk, and I see him pale. I am steeling myself; he won't believe me. I know it. I am prepared for it.

"John." I say, getting to my feet and tilting my chin just slightly.

"I am immortal."

 

\--

**JOHN**

 

 

It might be that I'm still drunk, or maybe he's just being a bloody arse. Whichever; I wasn't expecting that.

 

A gasp of incredulous laughter bursts from my throat, and I look at him like he's mad. Of course, he's mad. He's Sherlock. He's always been unhinged at best. But this is a whole new kettle of fish.

I choose to ignore whatever game he's playing, and focus on the matter at hand. The kiss can wait.

"Sherlock. Please, stop whatever you're doing. We need to talk about what happened. What's been happening. These past few months."

I see him roll his eyes exasperatedly, and I feel angry again, my fingers curling into fists.

"Don't be a bloody idiot about this." I say, gritting my teeth.

"John." He sighs and looks at me imploringly. "I'm sorry. I apologise. Truly, I do. I know that you've found it difficult-"

"Found it difficult?!" I can't help but interrupt, thinking of my sleepless nights, my inability to feel close to him, my lack of appetite.. 'finding it difficult' didn't even seem to cover it. 

 

"If you just told me the truth - these fucking lies, Sherlock! How did you do it? How did you do it really? It wasn't a trick of the bloody light. I felt your pulse. You were dead. Don't patronise me." My voice raises without me realising it, and I am shouting at him from across the room. Six months worth of tension is appearing before my eyes, and I can't seem to control myself.

  
"If you hadn't lied in the first place - I haven't been able to feel like your friend. I can't feel the  _same_ , not since then. I'm.. I'm dreaming about you bloody dying again, because who knows, it could happen. If you're capable of doing such a fucking despicable thing once, why not again?"

 

I pause, and Sherlock seems about to say something. He opens and closes his mouth, and I give another exasperated laugh. How is it so difficult to just tell me the truth? Six months is a long time to suffer. I'm done. I'm done with suffering.  
"Was it drugs?" I ask sharply, "Some special experiment? A chemical that stops the pulse? Are you on something?"

 

\--  
 **SHERLOCK**

"This is ridiculous."  
I mutter, though of course the real story is even more ludicrous than John's theories. He will not believe me, I see that now. Perhaps it was too optimistic of me to even try such an outright method of disclosure. He will have to see for himself. 

 

The irony of my plan does not fail to reach me. We are arguing about me killing myself, and here I am, plotting to kill myself once more. But it will fix things. He will believe me. 

I decide to have some fun with it. After all, this can only happen once.  
I imagine John may kill me afterwards. Oh - irony, once again.

 

But I am a firm believer in efficiency.  
Two birds. One stone.

 

\--  
 **JOHN**  


 

"Maybe it's bloody ridiculous to you, Sherlock but this is my  _life_ -"  
He has the audacity to roll his bloody eyes again, and I feel like socking him one straight in the nose. Whatever happened last night when I was out of my mind drunk is completely meaningless now - the bloody selfish idiot.

He interrupts me with a sigh, and stalks into the kitchen. When he returns, he's carrying a sharp knife, thick and jagged. I frown, my brow creasing in confusion.  
"What the hell are you doing?"

"Please, John." He drawls, turning the knife between his fingers. "I  think we can dispense with the drama."

The anger bubbles again and I'm pacing towards him, perhaps more slowly than I would have before. He does have a bloody knife for God's sake. 

 

"Well that's ironic." I hiss, nodding at the blade in his hands. "What the hell-"

"Kiss me, John."

I freeze mid-step, recoiling slightly from him, my eyes widening.  
"You - you what?" My words are softer, but shocked, almost disgusted. "Are you threatening me?"

_Is he taking the fucking piss out of me? For last night? Why the knife? I don't-  
_  
"No." He answers calmly, and holds the knife extended in one hand. He uses his other to unbutton his shirt cuff, rolling the sleeve up to the elbow. "I'm threatening myself. Kiss me, John."

I'm still frozen in my horror and the anger begins to return, bit by bit. This is Sherlock all over.  
"What happened to the truth?" I ask through gritted teeth, "What, now you're distracting me with fucking theatrics? Taking the piss out of me at the same time? Well, thanks, Sherlock. You can go ahead and bloody do it, because I'm not  _kissing you._ "

"Alright." He says simply, and brings the knife to his skin. I make a noise, something between a yell and the word 'Stop', throwing a hand out towards him. Fucking hell, he would have done it. There's already a red mark; not enough to break the skin, but holy-

"What the hell is wrong with you?" I breathe, looking at him differently.

"I am trying to tell you the truth." He explains, though of course that makes no sense. Blue eyes are intense on mine, and the corner of his mouth quirks. "As well as garner some truth of my own."

I continue to stare, dumbstruck.  
"Give - give me the knife, Sherlock. You don't know what you're doing. This is - it's gone too far-"

\--  
 **SHERLOCK**  


 

I roll my eyes, beginning to become impatient. I take a step towards John, keep the knife firmly pressed to my arm. Of course, this isn't the most effective way to do it, but I want him to see that I am serious before the event actually occurs.

 

"I said. Kiss. Me."  
I repeat, and my voice is a growl between us. We are standing closely, and I have to look down at him. His eyes are level with my lips, which is fitting. He risks a glance at them, and his gaze lingers. A smile ghosts across my mouth, and I press the knife harder against my skin.

"Now, John."   
I add, my voice low and I see his eyes widen slightly as he glances at the trickle of blood seeping from the broken skin. I do not take my eyes from his, and when he turns back to me, he is lost.

He leans forward, and his lips are warm on mine. I was expecting a chaste kiss, but it rather suddenly turns into something more needing, more violent. Rough hands find mine, and the knife is thrown, skittering across the floor. John's hands move to my face, his fingers wet with my blood. Our lips move together, and my heart pounds. This is quite something.

 

He is pushing me backwards, and soon we end up pressed against the section of wall beside the window. I realise rather quickly that this is not a gentle reveal of our feelings for one another, but the tension and stresses of six fraught months. John is acting with a rough desperacy that moves me; it speaks of loss and pain, hurt and betrayal. I did not mean to betray him. I did not mean to come back.

 

"Sherlock.." He breathes against my lips as we pull apart for just a moment. His body is pressed against mine, my face held between his hands, and I am looking at him with a regret and understanding that I wish I had grasped sooner.  
"I'm sorry, John."  
I say quietly, and his fingers curl into my hair, pulling our mouths crashing together again. Now is not the time to prove my secret to him. It would be selfish, terrible to put him through such pain, if only for a few minutes. I will make him stronger, first. I will fix him.

 

After a few moments, his fingers find the buttons of my shirt, and I swallow, tense. Are we - is this - I haven't..

I try to calm myself, taking a shaking breath that is quite unlike me. John's warm hands slip over my shoulders, and the shirt falls onto the floor. He tugs his own t shirt over his head, and I let my eyes linger on his chest. A smattering of hair and freckles; soft muscle. He seems to sense my fear, and takes a step closer, pressing against me. We are skin to skin, and he is so very warm.

He leans up to kiss me again, but this time it is soft.   
"Give me a minute." He says, his voice slightly more ragged than usual. He disappears into the kitchen, and I fold my arms across my chest until he returns, clutching a fold of bandage and some tape. John takes my hand, extends my forearm to him and begins to methodically wrap the bandage around and around the cut on my arm. He adds tape, and then bends down, pressing a kiss to the wrapped injury.

"You didn't need to do this." He says quietly, fingers stroking lightly over the area, "I would have kissed you anyway."

_That isn't why I did it_ , I want to say, but now is not the time.

 

\--


	4. Hold

\--  
 **JOHN**  


 

I lead Sherlock to the bedroom, both of us without our shirts. For some reason, I'm calm, though I know that later I will be worrying over this, panicking. His arm is bandaged, and I am satisfied that it will be fine. Perhaps not his bloody mental health, but his arm, yeah.

My heart is hammering, and I turn to him when we get inside, my hands falling to his belt and trousers. I want to smile - I've never seen Sherlock nervous in all the time that I've known him, but it's somehow poetic that he is now.   
"John." He says tentatively, and my name on his lips makes me tremble. "John, I'm - I've never.."  
"I know." I say simply. He doesn't need to tell me. His chagrin at his nickname all that time ago spoke for itself. But he has nothing to worry about. I'm not rushing into anything.

He steps out of his trousers, and I let my fingers run down his sides; pale, muscled skin that I've wanted to touch for as long as I can remember. I push him back gently, onto the bed and he sits on the edge. I see him swallow, and can't resist leaning forward to kiss him again. He's like a different man. It's mad.

 

"Relax." I urge softly, and slip my thumbs into the elastic strip of his underwear. He lifts himself just slightly, and I tug them down over his thighs, down to his ankles. I kneel between his legs, and his cock stands to attention, flush and hard against his stomach as he sits. He looks anywhere but at me, obviously self conscious, but I put my hand to the side of his face, bring his gaze back to mine.

"Sherlock." I chide softly. I want him to be at ease with this. Hell, I can't even believe that it's happening, but it has to be  _good._ My hand leaves his face and wraps lightly around him, moving with gentle strokes to test the water. His eyes flutter closed, and I receive a guttural sigh for my efforts, his fingers curling into the bedsheets. Christ, he must be close. Already.

Just seeing him like this sends a jolt of heat straight to my own cock, and I bite my lip. Moving forward slightly on my knees, I keep my eyes on him as I lean down, taking him in my mouth, as far as I can go.

Another gasp escapes him, and his eyes snap open to find me, his gaze glassy and hazed. "John.." He groans, his voice a breathy growl that only prompts me to go further, hollowing my cheeks and using my tongue to caress him in my mouth. Slender fingers find the back of my neck, twine into my hair, pulling me closer. I fall into a gentle rhythm, and he is rutting against my mouth, my name bursting from his lips on the back of each shaking gasp.  
And then all at once, he fills my mouth, a last keening groan escaping him. I open my eyes and pull back, swallowing. I swipe my thumb across my lips and stand, sitting down next to him and pulling him against my chest. He is heavy, panting and looks utterly undone. Christ, Sherlock, I think, the sight completely at odds with everything I know about him. Our friendship is bloody ruined no doubt, but there is the promise of something more. We both want it. Sherlock wants me.

My fingers stroke through his curls, and he rests his head on my shoulder. His breathing is finally calming, and after a few moments of just holding each other, he is asleep against me. I can't help but smile, and lean him back against my pillows, throwing the duvet atop him. I lay down beside him and loop an arm around his bare waist. I can't believe that this happened - that this is happening. I touch myself as I lay next to him, closing my eyes and thinking of his expression, my name on his lips, his taste in my mouth. I come hard within a couple of minutes, and head off to the bathroom. When I return, he's stretched naked over my bed, hands reaching to each corner. I take the opportunity to slide in next to him, and slip an arm around his shoulders. Naturally, he ends up asleep against my chest.

We have problems. Secrets. Issues. But we have each other.  
This can work.

**SHERLOCK**

 

I wake up after an hour, and wonder immediately why I have slept in the middle of the day. It is most unlike me - although I didn't sleep last night, so perhaps that is why..  
My senses are suddenly overwhelmed; John is everywhere.. his smell, his taste. His arm around my bare waist. I am naked. I blink. Naked and in John's bed. I remember all at once.

John's warm lips around me - my heart hammering, his name falling again and again from my mouth. Sheer bliss, release, exhaustion.

 

I open my eyes and I look at him. He too is asleep, and I reach forwards, my fingers gentle as I brush the hair from his forehead.   
This has changed everything, no doubt. I wonder if he has always had feelings for me, or if they have surfaced only recently..

He stirs under my touch, and there is a second when our eyes meet. I see his uncertainty, a panic that I might not feel the same way after the sexual act. I know the feeling, for I have it too.  
We lean in to kiss at the same time, and both of our fears are dispelled.

 

"Are you okay?" He asks quietly, his voice no more than a whisper. His eyes are concerned, and I know that he is remembering my stunt with the knife. I want to tell him that this was never my plan, that I did indeed want to kill myself but I fear that my words will become twisted and upset him. Now is again, not the time.  
"Perfectly okay." I answer simply, my fingers stroking along the skin of his cheek. 

 

\--

**JOHN**

 

We wake up in the mid afternoon, and I almost can't believe that it happened at all. Sherlock is apologetic; embarrassed that he fell into such a state of relaxation. I chuckle at him, explain that it's only natural - a chemical imbalance that comes from releasing..

He interrupts to assure me patronisingly that he _knows_  that, rolling his eyes. I can barely contain my smile. He is still Sherlock. I am still John. Things haven't changed that much.

 

We lay together for a good few hours, though we don't speak. I don't want to talk about what this means, and he doesn't want to talk about last night's mental bloody blip with that knife. I still don't know what the hell that was about. I'm not sure I want to know.  
I hope that eventually, he'll tell me - along with the secret that's been plaguing us for the past six months. At least he apologised last night for what he said. Even if it was in his own, infuriatingly patronising way.

 

I bring us toast and tea in bed, and it is our lunch and dinner. We don't get dressed and we don't talk about anything more significant than the freckles on my nose. The faint birthmark on Sherlock's back. We don't touch each other except to kiss, and lightly when we do - not so soon, not yet. I don't want to rush things. Even now, it all feels too good to be true.

 

Things change at 6.00pm exactly.

 

It starts when I go into the living room to put on the kettle again, turning on the television while I wait for it to boil. Immediately, something is wrong. The screen is plastered with the BBC's bold red titles, 'BREAKING NEWS' and scrolling text along the bottom whilst a news woman speaks solemnly, quickly to the camera.

  
"..-are still at large, with the next attack imminent. The death toll is currently at six, with New Scotland Yard refusing to give any statement at present. We cross now to our correspondent, who is at the scene of the last murder."

The picture cuts away to a young woman walking along with a microphone, informing viewers of a grisly murder that took place at the house behind her only an hour ago. Beneath the picture, scrolling text claims 'MURDER SPREE ROCKS LONDON. ONE KILL PER HOUR, MORE EXPECTED. NO POLICE LEADS. FAMILIES WARNED TO STAY INDOORS, LOCK DOORS AND WINDOWS. CALL THIS NUMBER IF YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION.'

"Holy-"  
I breathe, and I can hear a faint vibration. Hurrying back into the bedroom, I notice it coming from Sherlock's discarded trousers; his phone is ringing, and has been for God knows how long.  
"What is it?" Sherlock asks lazily, though his eyes harden slightly in concern as they take in my expression.

  
"Mass murder. Still happening." I mutter impatiently, finally pulling the phone free and tossing it to him. He answers, sitting up and pulling the sheet to drape across his lap. I run a hand through my hair as I watch and listen.

 

\--

**SHERLOCK**

"Lestrade."  
"We need you, Sherlock."  
"I'm really rather busy-"  
"This isn't a joke, Sherlock. There are people being killed by the hour. It's methodical, each one is identical. Similar victim backgrounds, descriptions, deaths - the next one is minutes away. I've been calling you for bloody hours and nobody's answered the door at Baker Street. For God's sake, we need you."

I glance at John, pursing my lips. This has been a truly beautiful day; I have not moved from this bed, and despite not discussing our problems as of yet, we have been happy. Contented. This could ruin everything.

To my surprise, he raises his eyebrows at me, his hands at his lower back.  
"We're going." He says definitively and I pause for a moment before nodding.

"John and I are on our way."  
"Come to Scotland Yard."

I hang up, and John is hopping around the bedroom, tugging on socks and trousers, throwing open his wardrobe for a t shirt. I am loathe to get up, but I suppose I must.

"Hurry up then." He prompts, though not unkindly. I sigh, and push myself up, pulling on last night's discarded underwear and loping through to my own bedroom.

Within minutes, we are ready to leave, and John's hand is on the doorknob. I stop him just in time, pull him back and envelope him in a kiss that embodies all the passion that I can muster. I worry that he has got the short end of this deal; I am rather ashamed to say that  I did not return the 'sexual favour' this morning.  John responds beautifully, his hands finding my waist as my own run through his hair, our mouths moving together as if made from the same cut of warm silk-

 

The spell is broken by another phonecall and I curse before answering it, still breathless as I bark Lestrade's name.

"It's happened. Seven murders. Get to Clyde Avenue, Kensington."

 

\--  
 **JOHN**

I can't help but feel guilty that we got distracted, though I know deep down that Sherlock could never have stopped that murder. It would have taken ten minutes for us to reach the station, another five to be briefed.. even if he'd made his quickest deduction in bloody history, we couldn't have reached that poor woman on time.

 

We make our way onto the crime scene, and I wince when I see her. There hasn't been enough time for anything to be done yet; forensics are still suiting up outside, so we're under strict orders not to touch anything. Sherlock especially. He rolls his eyes at the order and paces over to the body.  
"Same as the rest." Lestrade sighs, and runs an anxious hand through his hair. I feel for him, I really do. Apparently the press have been onto him all day, while Sherlock and I have been oblivious in bed. I feel heat rise into my cheeks at the thought.

  
"And these carvings?" Sherlock asks impatiently, gesturing towards the woman's half-flayed stomach. "Are they all the same? All this?"

"No," Lestrade answers, reaching into his pocket. He pulls out a thin stack of polaroid  photographs, fumbling with them as he passes them to Sherlock. "All different. We think they might be-"

"It's the Egyptian alphabet." Sherlock dismisses, barely looking at the corpses in the photographs. Lestrade looks down at them, his brow crinkling as he holds them to his eyes. 

"What does that mean?" I ask, unable to help myself. "We've got an.. an Egyptian? What?" I join Sherlock, careful to keep my distance as best as I can. I can tell from here - and probably so can everyone else - that the cause of death was a series of well-aimed stabs. I already know from Lestrade that this was how the others died, and the woman's blouse is flowered red in several places. Polka dots of blood. The blouse is torn completely on her stomach, unveiling the brutal carving.

 

"This is an 'R'." Sherlock moves his fingers through the air above the carving, demonstrating a pattern to me that I have no chance of understanding. "Give me back those photographs." He snaps to Lestrade, holding out his hand. The D.I hurries over, almost dropping them in his haste.

Sherlock holds them to his eyes, flicking between them one by one. His movements begin to slow, and he lowers the stack slowly, eyes staring ahead of him as if both horrified and intrigued.

"What?" I ask, trying to find his gaze. He is worrying me. "What do they say?"

He brings the photographs back up again, pursing his lips as he turns to me. He flips each one towards me, and I flinch at the mutilated bodies on the gloss paper.  
"S. H. E. L. O. K"  
A frisson of fear runs through me, my eyes swivelling to the woman on the bed.  
"R." Lestrade breathes it before I can, the letter a horrible realisation hanging in thick, silent air. This is a message. A personal threat. A taunt.

"We need to find our 'C'." Sherlock mutters, all business. He drops the photographs onto the bed and stalks from the room, his coat buffeting out behind him.

 

\--

**SHERLOCK**

 

I need to think. Think, think, think.

I pace from the house, cross over into a tube station and stand to one side. I bring my fingers to my temples and close my eyes. I need to mind palace; it simply needs to be done. The world seems to disappear in front of my eyes, and I see the photographs again, flashing in my mind. H, L, K, O, H, E,S. On the backs, hastily scrawled, the addresses.

Burnham Road, the Hobbs Estate, Green Way, Ackrington Avenue, Doverbridge Road, Euston Lane.   
I arrange them into order, rearrange, acronym the letters, the street names. If the bodies were a message, the locations possibly are too.  
Who would want to get to me? The question forms in the back of my mind without the conscious decision to worry about it, and my scathing answer is instantaneous. Everyone. Anyone I've ever gotten convicted. Obviously.

It hits me, suddenly, when I add the most recent road. Clyde Avenue.  
Ackrington, Burnham, Clyde, Doverbridge, Euston... Green, Hobbs.

A, B, C, D, E... G,H.  
We are missing the F. The next road will begin with an F, and the body will be carved with the remaining 'C' from my name. 

The murders will stop.  
It is a message to me personally, though I am not quite sure why yet.

 

I run out of the tube station, climbing the stairs two at a time. I almost crash straight into John as he leaves the house, and his hands find my arms, firmly gripping me to keep me still. I am impatient, and crane my neck for Lestrade over his shoulder.  
"Tell me." John commands, meeting my gaze with defiance. I sigh and nod, speaking quickly.  
"The bodies were found on roads beginning with letters of the alphabet. A, B, C, etcetera. The next is F." Lestrade appears at the sound of my harried voice and I speak directly to him.   
"All are in a fifteen mile radius of Baker Street. Find me every street beginning with 'F' and we'll go from there."

I snatch the photos back from him and free myself from John's grip, pacing past them both into the house again.

 

\--


	5. Carve

\--  
 **JOHN**  


 

A half hour later, and we are running out of time. Lestrade got to work straight away on Sherlock's deduction, and we have a list of fourteen roads beginning with F. It isn't much; where the hell do we start? Even trying to evacuate fourteen streets full of people would be futile; the idiot could grab one of them, be hiding in the loft or cellar.. Too many possibilities.

 

I hover whilst the forensics set to work on the woman's body. Sherlock is dashing around the house for more 'clues' and Lestrade paces anxiously, constantly on the phone. All at once a shout goes up, and Sherlock has found something.

 

We all dash upstairs, and find him half suspended out of the loft. For a minute, I think he's just gotten stuck and have to resist the urge to laugh. But then he drops down with ease and begins speaking quickly, and I have to contain myself. God, he's gorgeous when he's concentrating. He looks fierce, determined.

 

He catches me looking and I glance away, embarrassed by his bemused expression. I tune in to what he's saying, not wanting to miss anything else. There are lives at stake here, for God's sake, I chide myself.

 

"-easily two hundred harsh lightbulbs up there. Easily visible from an infrared helicopter. Heat detection. That's what he's going for; that's how we identify the houses. That's the  _game_ , that's the message."

He is running down the stairs again and Lestrade and I have to follow, the D.I barking into his phone for a helicopter. We have minutes; maybe twenty minutes to find the last house and stop the last murder. It disturbs me that Sherlock is being targeted so personally.. but what can we do?

 

A life is in danger. I hurry after him, slip my hand into his discreetly, and he gives me a distracted smile.

 

\--  
 **SHERLOCK**  


 

Seven people have died on my account. Seven people, and soon to be an eighth.  
I am pacing, I am losing patience with Lestrade's people, who can't seem to summon a helicopter. I feel as though I could scream. Right now, the perpetrator could be driving a knife into the stomach of another unsuspecting innocent, just for a chance to catch my attention.   
A warm hand slips into mine, and I feel slightly calmer with John by my side. I give a strained smile as thanks, and he seems to sense my unease.  
"This isn't your fault, Sherlock." He says, and I raise my eyebrows, my reply an imitation of my usual calm drawl. "I know."  
"Do you?"  
He knows me. Completely and unreservedly. I feel my bottom lip tremble at his question, and turn my face away, not wishing for John to see my failings. This 'case' is brutal, and it is not over yet.

 

"Copter's in the air!" Comes the call from Lestrade, and I free John's hand to check my watch. Twelve minutes. We have twelve minutes.

I pace over to a squad car and sit myself in the back, John hurrying to slide in beside me. The driver glances back surprisedly, and Lestrade climbs in the front seat. The next six minutes pass slowly. Painfully slow. The only thing keeping me sane is John's fingers, pressing atop my own. They are soft and hidden, and he strokes rhythmically, keeping me calm until the inevitable shout from Lestrade.  
"Foreman's Court!"  
The driver speeds off, and I am leaning forwards in my seat, my fingers a vice grip around John's.

 

\--  
 **JOHN**  


 

When we reach Foreman's Court, we have only minutes to spare; seconds even. The helicopter still hums overhead, and we all throw ourselves from the car as it squeals to a stop. Sherlock is running and I am following on his heels. I wish I'd thought to bring my gun. Armed response are on their way, but this guy is all knives as far as we know. 16, the house number.

Sherlock throws himself into the door and it slams open. My heart is racing in my chest, and I dash up the darkened staircase after him, though I can't keep up. He leaps two steps at a time, and I realise that not even Lestrade is with us any more. He must be waiting for armed response. Sherlock would never do the same; it wouldn't even be worth asking.

I just see the edge of his coat disappearing behind a door, and launch myself into the room, all regard for my own safety discarded.  
A woman is laying on the bed, but she is still alive. She is tied to the bedposts, and writhes in terror as we enter. Her stomach is bared, and the beginning of a symbol has been drawn. Carved. We have interrupted him.

"He's still here." Sherlock calls raggedly, spinning to face me. The world seems to spin in slow motion for a few seconds as I lock eyes with the tied woman, her gaze going to the wardrobe in the corner of the room.  
"Sherl-" I begin, his name bursting from my lips in fear and warning. But it is too late. I am too late - the man throws himself from the wardrobe, the knife in his hand finding it's way to Sherlock's neck, another arm holding him around the waist.

"Don't move." He hisses, and I am frozen, my eyes on my friend. Not.. friend. So much more. Everything. No. No, God, no, Sherlock-

Sherlock's head is tilted back, held firmly against the man's shoulder, exposing his throat to me. His eyes find mine, and he seems to be pleading with me.   
"John-" My name is croaked from his lips, and the man jolts him firmly to shut him up. I wince, my heart racing.

"Let him go." I demand, the tremble in my voice betraying my panic.

 

"He knew what you were." The man hisses, tilting his head to speak to Sherlock, near spitting at him as he holds the blade tighter against his neck. "He wanted you to know that. He knew you'd follow. I'm finishing off his last promise,  _Sherlock._ You'll be hearing from me."

"Please." I call again, slowly extending a hand, inching closer.

"He always knew what you were." The man repeats, and all at once his arm flies downwards, the knife plunging deep into the crux of Sherlock's solar plexus. I am yelling, screaming, my hands flying to my head, eyes wide and uncomprehending.

 

  
Sherlock's eyes meet mine for just a moment, and they are desperate. I am frozen. The man tugs the knife from my friend's body, and Sherlock's eyes close for just a second, fluttering shut. The man removes his arm from Sherlock's waist, and he crumples, falling into my arms as I lunge forward to catch him. In a second, the assailant has vanished. I can't care. I can't think. I can't.

Sherlock?

Sherlock!

He opens his eyes as I hold him, and all at once he is coughing, a stream of blood finding its way onto the cream carpet. The woman on the bed wails behind her gag, but I can't seem to hear, to see, to feel.  
"Sherlock? Sherlock, God, no, please-"  
I hold him close, lay him on his back. His lips are painted crimson, and his eyes are half glassy already. I am crying.  
"Don't you bloody do this to me again!" I cry raggedly at him, my hands pressing against the wound, trying to staunch the bleeding.  
His own fingers scrabble at mine, trying to pull them off.   
"Stop it - Stop, I'm helping you. Sherlock, please.. please. Oh - God - Help! Somebody!"  
I am calling out desperately, my worst nightmares coming true right before my eyes.

His bloodied fingers close around mine, and then his head falls back. His eyes are wide and staring. Beautiful, blue and glassy.  
His grip on mine becomes lax, and I am wailing raggedly, resting my forehead on his chest, sobs ripped from my throat.  
I can't.. Not.. Sherlock.. Not again.. Not..

He's gone. He's left me again. Sherlock. No. No.

 

I stay like that for a few minutes. My hands are shaking, and my knees ache, but I refuse to stand up. Refuse to let go of his hand. He's still warm. I can't.. deal with this. So soon after we.. I loved him. God, I loved him.

"I love you." I whisper raggedly, the words contorted by the sobs still catching in my throat.

Outside, I can hear armed response arriving, car doors slamming and boots beginning to thunder on concrete. They'll want to take his body away. Want to take me home. Alone. So alone. I.. I can't do this.

"Really, John."  
His baritone voice answers me, and I know that I am imagining it. I squeeze my eyes shut, praying for the torment to finish. But then his slickened fingers squeeze mine, and I am falling backwards, my eyes wide, a strangled gasp bursting from my throat.

"Sher- Sherlock?" I manage to breathe after a moment. He is standing up, straightening his shirt as if the whole incident was a bloody inconvenience. He is still coated in blood, a steady stream down the front of his shirt, and at the corners of his mouth. I am backed against the radiator, still on my arse, staring up at him like the bloody messiah. Well. That's as good an explanation as any at the moment.

"Who else?" He replies simply, leaning over to untie the woman on the bed. I am still staring at him, dumbstruck. Is he.. alive?

Am I hallucinating? I.. I can't.. I.. what?

He catches my eye, and takes a tentative step towards me, holding out a hand. I stare at it for several seconds before reaching out to grasp it. It's warm. It's alive. He's not dead. Christ.. Jesus.. bloody.. Christ.

 

Pulling me up, Sherlock rucks up his shirt, his skin bloodstained but otherwise.. clear.. perfect. No knife wound. No ghostly pallor.

"What?" I breathe, dumbfounded as I let my fingers stroke over the skin where I know the knife entered his body.

"I tried to tell you." He murmurs, his tone amused. His eyes are concerned though, searching mine for acceptance. The girl on the bed has passed out, and he looks down at her and tuts. Bloody tuts!

I can't stop staring at him. Even when Lestrade rushes in, a team of armed officers at his side. When he asks what happened, Sherlock pretends that he managed to injure the murderer. That it is not his own blood. That he did not just die in my arms.

 

Things begin to happen quickly; the girl is taken away, the forensics enter the room and we are given shock blankets. The blanket isn't enough. I can't take my eyes off him, my fingers still coated with his blood. I can't believe what I have just witnessed.

 

Sherlock is taking another photograph from an officer that has just arrived. It is from the aerial view, the helicopter infra red picture. 

I gaze dumbly up at him, still pacing around in his bloodied shirt as he examines it. Each house is marked by an array of lights in the loft that appeal to the copter's senses, I know that much. He shows me the picture, frowning.

"Hearts. The lights are arranged in hearts."  
He closes his eyes, sighing irritably as if in defeat. "The 'promise'. He's going to burn the heart out of me." He adds softly after a moment, pursing his lips.

\--


	6. Love

** SHERLOCK **

We are allowed home after half an hour, when Lestrade is finally satisfied with my story. My health, of course, is perfect. I feel a little drained, but that is common. I am used to it. The three months had educated me well, and after the first two weeks of experiments, I no longer required a day in bed to recover. After a month, I was fine after a hot bath. Now, though a tad out of practice, the extent of my suffering is a dizziness and numbed heaviness of my limbs. The ride home in the squad car is in silence. John stares rather blankly out of the window, and I merely rest my hand on top of his. His fingers are stained with my blood, drying in the lines of his skin.

 

We leave the car, walk up the steps and reach the flat. I close the door behind us and John takes a few meek steps into the living room, still not saying a word. He clutches a blanket around his shoulders; given to him by a paramedic at the scene. 

I imagine I must look a state. My shirt sticks to me, wet and crimson, and I can still taste the blood in my mouth. That was painful; slower than I would have liked. 

"Did you mean it?" I ask after a few moments of silence. "That you love me?"

John seems to come back to himself, and turns to look at me, his brows drawn together in bemusement.

"You're.. I.." He begins, his voice trembling just slightly. " _That's_  what you want to focus on here?"

I purse my lips into a frown and fiddle with the bandage on my arm for something to do. It is redundant, anyway.   
"You never would have believed me." I answer quietly, peeling away the tight wrapping to reveal unmarked skin. John's eyes widen again, and he takes a few hurried steps over, his hands snatching at my arm.

 

He examines the clear skin with awe, and I enjoy his warm touch and proximity.   
"You can say that again.." He mutters, shaking his head. He looks up at me rather sharply. "Christ, Sherlock. When did you know?"

My wet shirt is beginning to irritate me and I start unbuttoning it, rather regretting to wear this one today. I quite liked it, actually.  
"The fall." I sigh resignedly. "Obviously, John."  
I ball up the stained, sodden material and toss it into the waste basket. "Molly and I tried a few things. Bullets, pills, knives. Every time I would return."

 

He has to drag his eyes from the middle of my torso, the place where the knife ripped me open only an hour ago now clean and unmarked.   
"Molly? And you didn't think to tell  _me_?" He asks through gritted teeth, his eyes finding mine. "Three months, Sherlock."

I gently take the blanket from his shoulders and set it down on the sofa, my hands resting on his shoulders. My gaze is soft, apologetic and I am truly sorry. I did not realise the extent of his pain until now. How he has suffered for me. Because of me.

"I had to know what I was dealing with. To experiment. This is me, John. You cannot imagine how difficult this was to accept."

"Oh, I think I have a pretty good idea." He says with an incredulous look. "And you've had six months since then. You couldn't find one spare second to drop in that you're.. oh, I don't know - bloody - immortal?!"

"I told you this morning." I protest, shrugging. He looks near outraged, so I change tack. 

"John - I apologise. I do." I let my hands drop from his shoulders steadily, skimming along his arms until I find his hands. They are colder than usual, and the crimson stain is unsettling. "I wasn't planning to die again. Telling you would serve no purpose, except perhaps for you to have me sectioned."

It seems to be sinking in. John nods, and he appears calmer. Though obviously not happy with my choice to exclude him, I feel as though he is beginning to understand why. I can almost see the cogs turning in his mind; putting together certain things, thinking back.

  
And then he looks back at me, his features contorted in horror. I frown, concerned.

"So it.. it wasn't a trick? The fall? You.." He swallows, and his expression crumples. "You killed yourself."

I look away, look down, my eyelashes skimming my cheeks. Damn John, and his meticulous straightening of the facts. I'd rather hoped to keep that particular tidbit out of this. 

"You were in danger." I reply meekly, my voice dropping to a low murmur. I can't look at him; can't tell him that I failed. Sherlock Holmes; the great showman, the magician.. It wasn't a clever trick. I was out of options, out of time. I failed him.

"So?" He asks, exasperated and angry, his fingers finding my chin and forcing me to look at him.

" _So._ " I am uncomfortable with speaking so openly about my feelings, but it is necessary. He must understand. Why is this so difficult? I grit my teeth. "I care for you."  
 _I love you._  


"You're a bloody idiot." He mutters, shaking his head. I open my mouth to protest, but he is kissing me rather forcefully, his hands sweeping up to my cheeks and my bare torso pressed against the soft cotton of his shirt.

 

\--

  
**JOHN**

It all makes sense; terrible, awful sense, but sense all the same. All this time, I've been hating him for what he did. For letting me think he was dead, for planning the whole bloody charade in the first place.

It's a horrible realisation when it hits me, a sickness to the pit of my stomach. Everything on the rooftop was real. Sherlock was saying goodbye to me. He thought he was committing suicide, and he thought it would save me. All this time, all of these months..

 

I can forgive him for not coming back straight away. I understand my friend better than most. His scientific mind must have been completely overwhelmed. These six months of keeping me in the dark can't be forgotten, but then he's right. I wouldn't have believed him. And I'd hardly have let him kill himself in front of me to 'prove it'. I realise now the reason for that bloody knife stuff this morning - it already seems a lifetime ago. Well, to Sherlock I suppose, it is. 

 

I'm overwrought with bloody emotion; I've seen him die, held him as the life seeped from his eyes and the blood stained my fingers. I've found out that he truly does care for me. Realised what he gave up for me, all those months ago. 

I'm kissing him and I can't stop. I don't think he wants me to, either. He's already taken off his bloodsoaked shirt, but his chest is still slick with the remainder, and my fingers slide across as I pull him close. My cheeks are wet, and after a few moments, he breaks the kiss, looking down at me with tricolor eyes warmer than I have ever seen them. His gaze is concerned and apologetic, and he grazes a thumb across my skin to catch a tear as it falls. 

I roughly wipe a hand across both eyes, embarrassed at myself.  
"Sorry." I begin, but he shakes his head. He leans down and presses his lips to mine again, his kiss softer than I expected. His hands find mine, and he is leading me to his bedroom, all bloody calm grace. My heart is hammering against my ribs, and I can barely manage to put one foot in front of the other. But it's okay. It's fine. I'm fine. I have Sherlock. A vision of his blood smeared lips and glassy eyes flash in my mind, and I am squeezing his hand. Thank God. Thank God.

 

\--

**SHERLOCK**

 

I know that now is the right time. I have never felt closer to John, and I am similarly touched by his tears. The sheer ragged emotion that he is displaying is utterly mindblowing to me, and almost prompts tears of my own. I push the bedroom door closed with a click, and John swallows, his hands hovering by his sides as if he does not know what to do with them.

I take a few steps towards him and rest my palm on his cheek, hoping that my eyes can say all that I cannot. He holds my gaze for a few precious seconds, and my fingers find the hem of his t shirt. He obliges, lifting his arms into the air and I tug it over his head, tossing it away somewhere. John takes a step closer and our chests are together, my cool skin against his warmth, his faint tan contrasting with my pallor.   
"God, you're beautiful.." He breathes, shaking his head slightly as his eyes skim over me. I purse my lips against a smile and look down, rather flattered. Of course he cannot see himself. Even if he could, I doubt he would see what I see.

The sliver of teal in his eyes, his pupils blown as he looks at me and ringed by long, blonde eyelashes. The smattering of freckles that begins on his nose and end in the centre of his chest. Wisps of blonde hair that grace the soft skin, overlaying muscled arms and the flat panes of his stomach. John is the beautiful one. To think that he is mine.. it is incredible, to me.

I want to see him; see all of him, as he has seen me. My fingers are tentative at the button of his trousers, and he leans forward to press a kiss to my shoulder. It is emboldening, and I unzip him, letting the trousers fall to the floor. He returns the favour, though his movements are cleaner.. more well-practiced. I hope rather fervently for a moment that my inexperience is not painfully evident, and frown slightly as John pushes me back towards the bed, both of us wearing only our underwear.

"Don't be nervous." He murmurs softly, laying by my side. He runs a hand through my hair and leans forward to kiss me, pulling back to whisper; "We're in this together. Yeah?"  
I can only nod, my vocal capabilities seemingly impeded by nervous arousal. It is a ridiculous thought and I manage to stammer a "Yes." before he envelopes my mouth with his own once more. 

 

John's hands fall to my pants, and he tugs them off in a swift movement, freeing me for a moment to allow me to dispose of them. I do not feel self-conscious, but I know that I would feel better if he too were nude. I lean down and tuck my thumbs into the sides of his boxer shorts, slipping them up and over his hips, down past his thighs. He kicks them off, and I can see him for the first time. All of him. He is indeed a beautiful man. It requires no clarification from me.

 

I let myself lay back into the pillows, and take his hand, pulling him atop me. He is the embodiment of warmth between my thighs and against my chest, the sudden pressure of his skin pulling a sigh from me. John raises his eyebrows, and I think I see amusement in his eyes. He kisses me, and I react more forcefully than I had intended, our mouths moving together wetly. 

I remember this morning, and I know that I want to return the favour. He looks at me quizzically when I move his hands to the bedstead, shifting myself down further on the bed between his legs. He takes the hint, lifts himself higher and gasps my name rather surprisedly, though it is cut off mid-syllable as I take him into my mouth.  
"Oh - fuck.. God-"  
John's noises spur me on, and I experiment with my tongue and gag reflex. My fingers are splayed on his hips, and I must admit that I am enjoying this. 

 

**\--**

  
** JOHN **

Sherlock's mouth around me is heaven, bloody heaven, and I wonder idly if he's done this before. I know he hasn't, but each move is with a practiced pressure, everything slow and wet. My arms are trembling as my fingers dig into the bedstead, and I'm cursing, breathing his name.. Finally, I have to beg him to stop, try and pull back as much as I can.

He wriggles back into view beneath me, and my chest is heaving. He coquettishly licks his lips and I close my eyes against a shiver. It has to be now - I won't last long as it is. God, Sherlock.  
"Look at what you do to me.." I whisper raggedly, shaking my head. He leans up and presses another kiss to my lips, his words quiet and earnest.  
"Now, John. You're ready." I look searchingly at him, my heart still racing. I might be ready, but is he? He seems to follow my train of thought and nods, his next words meekly amused as he reaches up, slender fingers stroking my cheek.  
 "You can't break me. I'm immortal."

 

His hand disappears into his bedside table drawer, reappearing with a tube of lubricant. I breathe out shakily and release the bedstead, sitting up and squeezing a little onto my fingers. We share a look before I slip my fingers beneath him, finding the entrance that will soon be mine. He winces at the first, and I kiss him softly, moving in circles until I can fit in the second.   
Sherlock gasps my name, and it is near pained. I freeze, but he shakes his head, closing his eyes and willing me to continue. I kiss him again, and his tongue peeks between my lips. I circle again, and he kisses me more forcefully, obviously seeking an outlet for the discomfort. When I finally add the third, his fingers are at my back, digging into my skin as he closes his eyes and tilts back his head. He grits his teeth and I stop, worrying that we have gone too far.  
"John." He rasps, before biting his lip, opening his eyes to find me. "You. I want - "  
"Alright.. alright." I reply softly, removing my fingers at last. I position myself against him, and he is bloody beautiful, his hands twining around the bedposts, lips reddened from biting down on them. I plant one hand on the bed, and slip another beneath him, pulling him against me. Slowly, slowly, I begin to push inside and his mouth drops open slightly, his brow crinkling in discomfort and a low moan slipping from his lips.

 

"Oh - God-" The words catch in my throat as Sherlock's heat surrounds me, the tight pressure almost overwhelming. After a few moments I meet his gaze, and it is electrifying. I slip in a little further, and his fingers claw at the bedposts.  
"Do - do you want me to s-stop?" I ask raggedly, and he shakes his head firmly, his eyes fluttering shut again. My abdomen is resting against him, and I move the hand from beneath him to rest on his hip. I do not dare to move yet - not until he's comfortable. But God, oh God -  
"Fuck.." I mutter quietly, the feeling so intensely warm and close. I was right; I won't last long. But it's no surprise; it's Sherlock.. and this is all so new.. every part of this. To both of us. 

"Move." He whispers eventually, and I lean down, meeting his gaze. It is hungry, and I am satisfied that the pain is no longer unbearable. I begin to rut myself slowly and rock into him with a connecting slap that sends a shudder through us each time. Already, I can feel the tightening coil of pressure in my abdomen and I meet Sherlock's eyes, his gaze flitting between my lips and eyes.  
"John-" My name leaves his lips entangled in a gasp, and then a groan. He reaches up, clammy slender fingers entwining with my own as we move together, my pace quickening infinitesimally. "Sherlock.." I mirror, sighing against another curse as he arches his back slightly, pressing himself so hard against me. My fingers find his cock, and I stroke him in time with our movements, the tension inside me building steadily. Just the sight of him beneath me, utterly undone and rocking to my own rhythm..

My pace quickens just so, and I am spilling over the edge, crying out his name, swearing and cursing and trembling as I find my release. At the same time, my hand is coated with a wet warmth, and for a moment I assume that it must be me. When I finally blink away the dizzy haze that has come down over me, I realise that it is Sherlock. We have come at the same time, and somehow it is beautiful and poetic.

I pull out slowly, careful not to hurt him. The tissues at the side of the bed prove to be a good decision, and within a few minutes we are mostly clean. And entirely spent. Breathless, I let myself fall into his arms, and Sherlock rests his chin atop my head. I can hear his heart - his maddening, everlasting heart - and it is beating almost as quickly and loudly as my own.

He pulls the duvet up over us loosely, and I close my eyes, already half taken under by the darkness.  
"I was telling the truth." I murmur somewhat breathlessly, barely aware of what I'm saying in my drowsy state of bliss.

"You do love me?" He asks quietly, his own voice trembling just slightly.

"I do love you." I confirm, almost slurring my words. I fall into a calm and dreamless sleep, the first in months.

 

 

 

 


	7. Crack

  
****SHERLOCK  
  
We sleep through until the morning, and I am the first to wake. Sunlight streams through the blinds, landing in strips across the bed. John's skin shines in the light, his face soft and at peace as he rests. I sit up, and immediately stifle a gasp at the ache that I feel in my backside and thighs. It is not an unpleasant ache, but serves as a reminder of the night before. I am no longer a 'virgin', though I have always detested the label. Who is society to define us by our orifices?

I lean over, let my fingers ghost over John's hair, sweeping it off his forehead. It was a beautiful night, I suppose. I have shared myself with John now in every way possible. He knows who I am; what I am. We are a joined core; he is the nucleus of my world.  
I realise that perhaps it has always been that way. I have no plans to share with him these sentimental musings.

 

I feel rather conflicted; simultaneously unclean but loathe to wash away John's scent, the presence of him on my body. Finally, I push myself out of bed, grimacing slightly at the languorous ache as I make my way to the bathroom. There is a similar ache in the skin of my solar plexus; a reminder of what could have been. Well; what truly happened. I imagine that both aches will be gone in a matter of hours.

 

The hot water of the shower is welcome, and I sigh through the steam as it soaks me through. I stay in for as long as is decent, before reluctantly climbing into a warm towel, which I wrap around my waist. The cold air of the living room hits my damp chest as I leave the bathroom, and I can't help but smile as I saunter over to the windows, the sun streaming down upon me. 

 

I am stretching, looking behind myself at the bedroom, wondering how much longer John can possibly be asleep for. I am pondering over making him a cup of tea, when it happens.

 

A sharp crack hits my ears at the same time as all the air is knocked out of me, a ricocheting bang echoing around the apartment. I fly backwards, slamming into the armchair and knocking it over. There is a roaring in my ears, and a searing pain in my chest. I think at first that I must be on fire, but when I raise my fingers to the area, they come away steeped in red. 

 

I am dizzied and in a world of pain, unable to stop myself from crying out; a throaty yell that brings John running from the bedroom - although, I think, he may have already been running to me after the shot was fired.

 

It was indeed a gunshot, I realise. John is swearing, wearing only a loose pair of pajama shorts. He dashes over to where I lay, my body crumpled beside an upturned armchair. Everything is hazing, and he is cupping my cheeks, begging me not to do this again.

 

I can't concentrate, but I know what to do.

 

\--   
 **JOHN**  


"Sherlock! Fuck.. fuck, no, not again.."  
I am screaming at him, shaking him as he threatens to pass out on me, to give in to this curse. The bullet has cracked the window, whipped straight through and sunk into his chest, throwing him off his feet and onto the floor. His entire chest is soaked through, and I replace his towel, trying to give him some kind of dignity.

I try and stabilise him, but it is futile. The bullet is in the right side of his chest, so if I were in an operating theatre, he might have a chance. But I am not and he doesn't.

 

He grabs at my fingers pressing to the hole, and he's trying to meet my gaze. It's terrifying; his eyes are unfocused, his head lolling as he tries to keep himself awake. Alive.  
"Sherlock-" I protest, crimson to my wrists. He bats away my hands, digging into his own chest with his fingers.

I lean back, watching in horror as he pulls out the bullet, the hunk of metal strangely contorted. He drops it onto the hardwood floor with a clink, and then collapses in my arms, almost immediately stilling.

"Sherlock.." I whine quietly, closing my eyes. I can't help the tears. This isn't any easier, even with what I know. To see him die again. This is the third time. I can't stand it. I bloody can't. 

I lean down, my arms looping  his shoulders and holding him to me like a child. He is still and pale, his naked body only just covered with the red soaked towel. I begin to rock with him, waiting and pleading.

 

**\--**

  
** SHERLOCK **

When I begin to come round, I am weak. Two deaths, merely hours apart is more than I have done for a while, and I need recovery time. I feel leaden, my chest aching terribly. I am only thankful that it was in the right side. I still am not sure about my heart, and its ability to keep up with my resurrections.

 

I am lying in John's arms, and immediately I shiver, the cold air of the room creating goosebumps on my skin. I cannot pretend to be fine this time, cannot even summon the urge to speak to him. He looks down at me as I open my eyes, still groggy as I lean against him.   
"Oh, Christ  - thank God-"  
I lift my hand, and it feels like a dead weight, aching terribly. I wrap my fingers around John's wrist, and I am fading again, unable to keep myself conscious or coherent.  
"Sherlock?"  
John sounds worried now, his face that had initially been relieved, now concerned. After a moment he stands, and a groan catches in my throat as I am lifted into his arms. He is carrying me back into the bedroom. He sets me down on the bed, and passes his fingers over my chest, as if searching for any wound that might still remain. Of course, I am perfect.

"Just.. weak." I manage to croak, and he passes a hand over my forehead in concern, sweeping back curls.

"Who did this, Sherlock?" John asks, a quiet rage in his voice. "Is it him? He's back already?"

"Moran." I say, the name a whisper on my lips as my eyes close, but John doesn't reply. The name means nothing to him, of course.

"Mor.." I cough, and it wracks my body. John hushes me, strokes the skin of my cheek. I am still dizzy, and my strength is coming back in the smallest of ebbs and flakes. "Moriarty's.. man."  
It is not the most eloquent of descriptions, but it is all I can give him at the moment. Perhaps I'll try and explain again later.   
I close my eyes, and it is dark.

 

\--

** JOHN **

  
While Sherlock sleeps, I have to go and fix myself a stiff whiskey. I drink it in one shot, and pour myself another. I follow with a black coffee for good measure, standing and running a hand through my hair in disbelief. 

So much  for immortal, I think. He's exhausted. I'm confused, not sure how any of it works. I feel like I might be sick; and that's the shock talking. If this happens much more, he's going to be completely useless. Bloody bedridden. How didn't I see before how much it takes out of him? Unless this is a consequence of.. too many deaths at once? God, I wish there was some sort of manual for this. My hands are still shaking, still coated in his blood almost to the forearms. 

 

The hardwood floor by the armchair is completely red, pools and pools of blood. I get to work with a roll of kitchen towels and some old cloths, spraying enough disinfectant to clean a whole bloody town. I'm half doing it just to distract myself. I don't want this memory. Not in our flat. I scrub hard at the floor, not sure if I can do this.

 

If this is going to keep happening, I'm going to have to get stronger than this. Emotionally. I can't have my best friend.. well. I suppose that's a bit of a light term for him. My.. lover? Boyfriend? God, no. Sherlock.. I can't have _Sherlock_ dying in my arms every day.

 

A sob bursts from my lips when I am least expecting it, and I have to clap a hand to my mouth. My cheeks are wet and I can taste the disinfectant. I sit back on the floor and try to control my breathing. I should never have had to watch him die once.

 

Three times is too much. Way, way too much. 

 

When I finally force myself to finish cleaning and dump the piles of sodden, pink kitchen towels - I find the bullet. I pick it up between two fingers and carry it to the kitchen, rinsing it off under the tap. 

 

I grimace when I bring it up to my eyes to inspect.

It's been carved, shaped and manipulated to resemble a heart. 

 

That seems to be our assailant's symbol. 'Moran'. 'Moriarty's man'.

My hands are shaking again, and I have to set down the bullet and bring my hands to my head, breathing hard. He is after us.. After Sherlock. And he knows about Sherlock's secret. I try to remember what he said at the scene, but my memories are hazed from my panic at the time. My eyes had been fixed on the knife at my friend's throat.

Something about finishing Moriarty's promise. And Sherlock had said that he meant to 'burn the heart out of him', which had indeed been Moriarty's vow. Revenge, then. Or some.. predetermined plan. Moriarty. I should have known that we hadn't heard the last of him.  

 

I try to calm myself down, my hands shaking near violently. I'm no bloody use to Sherlock like this. 

He may be invincible, but he certainly isn't strong - not right now. He needs me. And I'll be there.

 

Composing myself, I head into the bedroom with the bullet to show him, but he's still fast asleep, curled into the foetal position and clutching the pillow that I laid on last night. 

  
I sit down gingerly beside him, stroking his hair. He looks so innocent in his sleep; pale and beautiful and calm. I feel the fiercest urge to protect him, my shaking hands curling into fists.

_There'll be no burning of hearts while I'm around. You've got me, Sherlock. We're going to kill this bastard._


	8. Lance

** SHERLOCK **

 

I wake up after a couple of hours, and my whole body still aches. I feel as though there is lead in my veins. Have I run a marathon? Climbed Everest? Either of those things would be apt for this feeling. But I am improving, and within a few hours, I imagine that I will feel nothing at all.

 

John sets down a tray on the bed; coffee and two slices of jam on toast. I usually detest jam, and he knows that.  
"The sugar will give you a bit of energy." He says softly, sensing the direction of my thoughts. "How do you feel?"

He sits on the edge of the bed beside me, reaching over to brush back the curls from my forehead. His eyes are still concerned and I roll my eyes at him, speaking through a mouthful of toast.  
"Like death warmed up. Isn't that the saying?"

John punches me gently in the shoulder, before sighing, seemingly relaxing slightly now that I am able to talk. I expect him to begin again with the sentimentality, but there is a more pressing matter at hand.  
"I found the bullet. It's been shaped. Carved into-"

"A heart?" I finish glumly, and eat the last of the slice. John purses his lips, nods. He is still watching me intently, as if I might die again rather suddenly. 

"Why is he doing this?" He asks after a few seconds, seeming to not want to discuss my third death at all. Well - the third that he has seen, at least. I too am not enjoying the memory of bleeding out onto the floor, though I must admit that John's arms are a rather comfortable place to meet one's end. "Isn't it a bit pointless, if he knows that you can't.. that he can't make you.."

"Die?" I offer, and he winces. I reach over and take his hand, noticing with a start that my fingers are coated with my dried blood. One glance at my bare torso gives the impression that half of me rather exploded out of the bullet hole, and it is a grisly image to contend with. I try to ignore my appearance and lean back, enjoying the warm softness of John's fingers as I explain.

"I fear that he might be trying to find a way. Molly and I-"  
I freeze, sitting back up slowly and my eyes widening. 

"What? What is it?" John asks tensely, looking at me sharply with worry in his features.

"We need to make a call. Now."

\--

 

** JOHN **

 

Sherlock tries to get up, but I won't let him, pushing and chiding him until he settles back disgruntledly into the sheets, clutching his coffee mug.   
"I'll do it. Who am I calling?"

"Molly, first. And then the hospital." He replies, seeming on edge. This must be important. I frown, pulling out my phone and finding the number for St. Barts. "You need to try and contact her. She might be in grave danger."

He is fidgeting, obviously keen to get involved but I can see him wince with every harsh movement. He isn't completely fixed yet.

 

I find Molly's number and call, lowering the phone just slightly to frown at Sherlock in my concern, talking to him in a hushed tone.  
"What happens if you - if you die too much?" The words are not only strange to say, but make me feel physically ill. They drag back the memories of yesterday, of this morning too. Blood, pain and desperate words. 

He rolls his eyes at me, his attention firmly fixed on the phone. It is ringing on the other end.  
"The most we ever tried was twice in one day. I had to rest for days afterwards, and it was like this. You have to understand, John - when I say 'immortal', I use the term extremely loosely."

"So you could still.." I begin, my lips pursed in my unease. He interrupts me.

"I imagine so, yes. If one was inventive enough."

We are both thinking the same thing, I know it. Moran is trying to be that one. Trying to be inventive. Trying to end him.  
I feel a combined frisson of both fear and anger, and hang up the phone.

"No answer." I don't want to talk about Sherlock dying. Especially not for good.

 

"Try the hospital."

I find the number for St Barts and sit myself down on the bed beside him. I go through the switchboard, being first connected to Reception, and then Pathology, before finally getting to the morgue. All the while, Sherlock is pressing tentative kisses to the skin of my neck, his lips skimming along the collar of my t shirt. Still, I can almost feel the tension rolling off him in waves.

 

He is worried. He makes me worried.

 

When I ask to be connected to Molly Hooper at long last, a man picks up instead. I recognise his voice; it is Terry McDonald, another mortician that Sherlock and I sometimes deal with when Molly is off. 

"Terry? Is Molly not-"  
"We haven't seen her for days, John. Elaine reckons she might be taking a week of holiday, but she'd tell us. I know Molly, she'd tell us. She'd sort out the paperwork."

I look at Sherlock, and he is closing his eyes, his teeth gritted beneath pursed lips. A muscle jumps in his jaw, and I frown, my forehead wrinkling in concern. I thank Terry and hang up, turning to Sherlock with resignation in my voice.

"Something's happened to Molly, hasn't it?"

He sighs, opening his eyes. They are darkly determined, and I know that he's angry. Hell, I would be too. He probably thinks that it's all his fault. I hope for Molly's sake that she's taken the holiday. God, I hope she has.

"We're going over." He says eventually, pushing himself up with a wince and no amount of coaxing can get him back into bed.

 

\--

** SHERLOCK **

  
I know that Molly is in danger, and I berate myself for not thinking about her before. I was ashamedly caught up in John; in our newfound relationship and explaining things to him. Not to mention the attacks. The first was easy to bounce back from, but the second has knocked me for six. Even now, the heavy feeling in my limbs remains. I feel battered and bruised. I am hoping that it will fade soon. John and I arrive outside her flat, and his concern too is evident as I wince climbing out of the taxi.

"I'm fine." I mutter, and he squeezes my hand. I have not had chance to shower, and dried blood still rubs against my chest beneath my shirt. It is rather disconcerting, but I cannot bring myself to worry about it at the moment.

 

I do not ring Molly's doorbell. 

We run up the stairs to her apartment, the movements jarring and painful, and immediately I can see that something is wrong. Anyone could see that. The door to her flat stands open, and there is already a trail of debris leading the way into the living space. Ripped magazines. A smashed television. Cushions discarded and a smashed lamp. There has been a struggle, and I grit my teeth at the thought that we are too late.

 

John's hand is a vice grip on mine, and I lead him through tentatively to Molly's bedroom, a jagged chip missing from the pink door.

The bedroom is similarly trashed; the covers half torn from the bed, a curtain hanging lopsidedly from its pole - but I cannot focus on that. John gasps; Molly is laying on the bed, her clothes mussed and bloodied, her hair freed from its ponytail and falling across her face. The sight strikes a fear into me. At a guess, she is unconscious, but I have to know. I will have nobody else die on my account.

I take a pace towards her, and then inexplicably I am falling, the sickly feeling in my stomach most unexpected. The gasp does not even have a chance to leave my lips, and then I am in great pain, terrible pain. I cannot help but cry out, and blood bubbles in my mouth. I am gargling, and I do not remember freeing John's hand. He looks down on me from what appears to be a hole in the sky, and calls my name, his voice ragged and lost.

 

I fade into the darkness, with the word ' _creative'_  on my lips.

 

\-- 

  
**JOHN**

My heart is hammering the whole way into Molly's flat. I am scared for what we might find.. Molly is a friend to me, and quite a dear one at that. Now that I know about her helping Sherlock, I have even more respect for her, and I hate to think that she might have been hurt. 

I squeeze Sherlock's hand tightly, trying to reassure him although I feel past reassurance myself. We head slowly into the bedroom, inching open the door and it is a state. A rug has been dragged, curling over on itself by the door.. a curtain is half falling off..   
Molly herself lays on the bed and I can't help the sound that escapes me, a panicked gasp. She doesn't look good, but she isn't definitely dead. There's hope. If I can just-

 

It all happens extremely quickly.

Sherlock takes a step towards her, and the section of the floor seems to disappear, the rug dragged down with him into the flat below. My arm is jolted by his pull, and I slam into the ground, the joint of my elbow throbbing. It is so completely unexpected, and my mouth is agape, unable even to call his name.  
Shaking, I clutch onto the edge of the door as I lean over to look through the hole. The floor has been jaggedly removed somehow; I don't have time to question how.. At that moment, a bloodcurdling sound reaches me. It is the sound of a gargling scream.. a pained groan. I know without looking that it is Sherlock, but I force my head over the edge anyway.

I can't believe what I am seeing.

Sherlock is impaled.

He lies vertically, four thick, pointed metal plinths spearing through his body. The ends are coated with crimson. His back is slightly bowed towards the ceiling, his legs sagging, arms splayed to either side. His face is contorting in agony, and blood is seeping through his shirt, his coat, dripping steadily onto the floor.  
"Sherlock-" I call, his name torn from my throat as I stare horrorstruck at the sight below me. It has been constructed to hurt him, to kill him painfully. He is still alive, but he is fading fast. His head lolls to one side, and a stream of blood slips from his lips and spatters silently onto the concrete. Someone has broken into the flat below to do this. Someone has planned this. He knew we were coming. He knew that we would come for Molly. He knows Sherlock's weakness is his friends and loved ones, and that is a terrible sign.

 

I can't tear my eyes away from him, though there is bile in my throat. I feel as though just looking at the horrific scene below me will scar me; I already feel the sight of those impaling sticks tattooed on my retinas. I blink, clinging onto the frayed floor and lean down as much as is possible without falling myself. 

When I am able to look at his face again, I see that he is already gone. Still, pale, peaceful. He could be a sleeping angel, if not for the four spiked poles lancing his poor, ruined body. I am angry. Bloody furious. I still feel ill, and my hands are shaking, and I can't think about another thing but the fact that I have failed him.

 

I think of him sleeping peacefully in bed, and my vow to protect him.   
" _No!_ " I scream down at him, but of course, he is dead. I need to get down there, to reach him before he awakes painfully, his body sealed around those bloody metal plinths. I glance up at Molly, and realise that she might still have a chance. Trembling, I carefully step over the hole and reach the bed, taking her pulse. It's faint, but there.

I call an ambulance, though the conversation runs past in a blur. I need to get to Sherlock. I put Molly in the recovery position and tear the concealing carpet from the hole, so that no one else should make his mistake. 

And then I am running down the stairs two at a time, barely aware that angry, despairing, shameful tears are spilling down my cheeks.

 


	9. Bare

** SHERLOCK **

  
I wake up in hospital. I can open my eyes, and move gingerly, but the heaviness is worse than ever. I identify the clinical setting almost immediately; white walls and an irritating beeping. A noise of disgust escapes my lips as I realise that I am wearing one of the crisp paper gowns, and John chuckles to my left.

I turn to look at him, and his eyes are tired and haunted. I swallow, the sight almost worse than the aching pains.   
 _John. I'm immortal. Why am I in hospital?_  I try to ask, but all that leaves my mouth is a rasping half-word. John is immediately up, pouring me a plastic cup of water. Humiliatingly, he has to help pour it into my mouth.

I feel a tug  on my arm as I move to help, and realise that I am hooked up to an IV. I frown at John rather pointedly, and he sits on the edge of my bed, holding my fingers in his own.

"I had you admitted for exhaustion and dehydration." He explains, his eyes concerned. He lowers his voice to a hushed whisper, and I can hear his fear reflected within it for the first time. "It's all I could think to do. I waited for an hour, Sherlock.. You were still.. You didn't.."

"Weak." I say by way of explanation, my voice a croak. Twice in one day. I am surprised that I am even awake now. Perhaps John's forward thinking helped me, though I cannot of course be hooked up to an IV each time I pass.

"You've been out for hours." He adds, and his eyes ghost over my torso, hidden beneath the gown and a scratchy hospital blanket. I know that he is imagining the speared poles, lancing through my body. I realise with a pang that he would have had to lift my body from them; remove my bloodied shirt before bringing me to hospital. It explains the white fear that is barely concealed in his expression.

"I'm sorry, John." I say, and the words are so pitiful as they leave my lips. They tremble, they crack and I look away. John should not have to care for me in this way. He should not have to see the things that he has seen. This time, I realise, I did not even have the dignity of dying in his arms.

"Don't." He says rather firmly, and there is a quiver in his voice, a redness of his eyes. He is tortured by this. We don't have to talk about the brutality of my last death. I don't think that we can. He squeezes my hand and I nod, trying to distract myself.

"Molly?"

John relaxes only slightly, though his words are on edge.  
"She's in a ward upstairs. Came round about two hours ago."

"You've spoken?" I ask weakly, and he nods. He lifts my cup and I am managing to take it from him, to drink for myself. It is a start.

 

A few moments pass in silence, and my fingers tremble around the plastic cup. I place it back down gingerly on my tray and John is searching my face. He is trying to guess whether or not I know yet, whether I have figured out what is happening to me. The game.

 

"It's going to keep happening." I confirm eventually, my words defeated. I lean against the pillows and close my eyes. I can see no way out. In a matter of hours, I have lost hope.

  
I feel John tense, and know that he wants to shout, to demand to know why. Instead, he whispers, fingers stroking against my own. "But.. why? To make you weak? I don't see.." He shakes his head, and I know what he means.

 

He doesn't see how it can make any difference, my being weaker, not if Moran cannot kill me.   
It does not bring me satisfaction to know that I will be right this time. I usually rejoice in knowing when I have come to the correct deduction. Instead, I am resigned. The pieces have fit together, and they signal my demise.

 

"If I'm weak, it makes it easier." I say, my eyes firmly fixed on the bed. I don't want to look at him at the moment.

"Easier?"

"To cut out my heart."

There is a beat of silence, and I feel John physically recoil a few inches whilst he tries to understand. I see the pieces fitting together in his own mind, and I squeeze his own stilled fingers.

"That's what Molly told him, isn't it? About the heart?"  
I ask gently, and John nods, seemingly horrorstruck. I do not blame Molly. It is evident that she would have had to withstand rather a lot of pain to keep my secret from Moran. I wonder how long ago she told him about the weakness; perhaps after our first incident with the knife. Her suffering too, is on my conscience.

He will keep doing this. I will weaken. He will remove my heart. 

He will quite literally enact Moriarty's promise, I realise with a slight nausea. Perhaps he'll even burn it.

It is grotesque, but at the same time, I can appreciate the innovation. I do not feel scared.   
I feel sorrowful, and reach out to press my palm to John's cheek, the IV tugging along with me.

 

 

\--

  
**JOHN**

I can't believe what he's telling me. I can't believe that we're even here.

Everything is moving very quickly.. it doesn't feel like yesterday that we were close, touching each other for the first time. Finding out about his secret. And this morning seems years ago. Clutching his bleeding body to me, as I did again this afternoon, cradling him to my chest and tearing away the bloodied shirt that would arouse questions in the hospital. 

I am staying strong for Sherlock, and it is killing me. Each death tears away another layer of my humanity. The last was so brutal, so inhumane.. and he's telling me that it isn't over yet. That Moran will persevere until he is weak enough to slice open. The thought raises bile in my throat, and angry tears well in my eyes.

No. I won't let it happen. No way in hell.

 

"We'll run away." I assure him, my voice fervent as I lean down, clutching his hand in mine.

"He'll find us." Sherlock answers simply, his voice gentle and his eyes pitying me.

"Then we'll keep running." I reply through gritted teeth, searching his face. How is it that he seems to have bloody given up already? I won't have it. I won't let him.

"I'm so tired, John." He says quietly, and leans back on his pillow. His eyes are on the window, and as I watch, his eyes begin to redden and shine. A tear escapes his eyelid and he reaches up automatically to brush it away. His arm snags on the IV and he winces. I am there, my fingers catching the wetness and cradling his cheeks in my hand. By now, my own tears have spilled over, and my lip trembles as I try to keep it together.

"No." I say, and my words are rough and angry through the tremble, "I won't let this happen. Do you hear me? There's still time."

Sherlock nods once, slowly, but I think it is only for my benefit. He tugs lightly on my arm, and I take the hint and climb onto the bed beside him, careful to leave him enough space. I let my arms fall around him, and try not to think about what he is saying, what he has said. 

 

"You're going to be fine." I assure him, and somehow my voice is steady. I am glad that he can't see my face at the moment. "Just fine, Sherlock."

Silence falls and I stroke my thumb along the exposed skin of his shoulder, just laying together. Just being together. I don't think about how long we might have left, although that seems to be the unspoken theme in the air. That isn't going to happen. There is time yet.

 

"John," Sherlock begins softly, and when I look down at him and smile questioningly, he seems to falter.

"What is it?" I ask, holding him a little more tightly.

"I want to be with you." He finishes quietly, and I frown, about to point out that he _is_ with me. But he lets a hand ghost over my thigh, and I catch his meaning, raising my eyebrows in surprise.

 

"I don't think you.. you're too weak." I protest, and he shakes his head.

"Please."

We lock eyes for a moment, and then finally I nod. I know why he is doing this. But it won't be the last time.  
It won't. We'll find our way out of this. We have to.

 

There is a lump in my throat as I stand and walk to the door, locking it. Sherlock has a private room, and we aren't due a doctor's check for a while. My hands are shaking, and as I draw the curtains, Sherlock is shifting himself on the bed, making even more space for me. 

 

I meet his gaze, and slowly shrug off my cardigan, unbuttoning my shirt with a practiced carefulness.

 

\--

** SHERLOCK **

 

My eyes meet John's as he begins to disrobe, and our locked gaze is on fire; a steady burn between us fuelled by lust, love and sadness. The sadness is mine alone. John will not accept my fate, but I am learning to.

I cannot stop Moran. His reputation precedes him, and I know already that he is an excellent marksman and homicidal genius to boot. Jim Moriarty would fraternize with no less. 

I cannot even escape his attempts long enough to get my strength back. Perhaps if I could, I would be more optimistic about my fate, but I am weakening by the day. His attacks are cold and calculated and I am caught firmly within in his crosshairs. Perhaps no man is truly supposed to cheat death, I think. Moran is my reaper; he will deliver death to me without mercy. Throw me into non-existence with unreserved brutality.

I am not afraid. Running would be pointless. I am not well enough for the chase, and to try and escape him might bring down a secondary wrath on John. Even in light of recent events, that is my worst fear.

I will bear this as best I can. I will not meekly accept my fate, but I will not try to prevent it. And John will live - he will grow to love again. He'll marry, have children, be happy. I could never see that life for me, anyway. Even before this.

He rejoins me in my bed, and I am breathlessly admiring his form once more. I take in every inch of him with my eyes, reach out to stroke his soft bare skin. I am cataloguing him, storing him away in my memory and I know that he is aware.

It is written in the sadness of his eyes, the tremble behind the firmness of his lips as he kisses me.   
"John.."   
I breathe his name near desperately, my heart thundering in my chest. My weak, deceitful heart. A heart that cannot bear the burden of immortality.

A heart that is soon to be stilled, and burning.

John's hands slip beneath the hospital gown, and he touches me softly through the fabric of my underwear. I sigh quietly, shuddering against his lips, and he envelopes them in his own once more.

Our touches are mutually soft and desperate, and more than once I think I see shining wetness in his eyes. He conceals it well.  
He leaves me for a moment to check the cabinet. My room doubles as an examination room and sure enough he finds lubricant packets, often used for prostate exams.

 

Whilst his back is turned, I take a shaking breath and truly let the pain show for a moment. The heavy aching is torture, and trying to hide it is worse. But I don't want John to worry. I'll need days to recover, though something tells me that Moran will not gift me with such time.

John heads back over to me and my expression is composed once more. He begins to kiss me in earnest, and I lose myself in his embrace and the pattern of his gentle touches. My friend truly is an intoxicating presence. His taste, his smell and touch.. they consume me, and I am proudly his to be consumed.

His fingers eventually find their way inside me, and I am sighing, pushing myself against him.  
"Okay?" He whispers concernedly, and I nod, opening my eyes to share with him a warm and conflicted gaze. 

John cannot hurt me. Not when my body is already so fraught. His presence helps to lessen the burden, his touch my antidote.

The monitor beeps rhythmically beside us, the hospital air cool and crisp and clean. I am aware of the social taboo of this situation, but I do not care. I may not have another chance. Moran could have a sniper rifle aimed at the hospital entrance at this very second, if only it were inventive enough.

John gently pulls back his fingers, and lays back down beside me. I kiss him once, slowly and with a passion that I am finding it easier to communicate.. Afterwards, I turn onto my side and allow John to hook my leg over his own, parting me from behind. We pause for a moment, and I whisper the affirmative for him to continue. He pulls me close and pushes himself carefully inside, uttering a shaking groan.  
I breathe his name, trying hard to ignore the aches that threaten to break the spell.

John begins to rock, and his movements are careful and precise. Loving. His chest is warm against my back, and I am blissful and safe. He presses his lips against the skin of my shoulder, and one of the hands resting around my waist reaches for my cock, stroking in time.

I feel so very full this way, and rather overwhelmed by John's scent and warmth. It is a new experience, and it does not escape me that it may be the last. Tears prick my eyes once more and they are bittersweet. I am riding the wave of bliss and love, lost in the sensations of John's body within my own. We are connected, but we will be torn apart. 

**JOHN**

Sherlock and I lay on our sides on the small hospital bed, and I hold him as close as is possible as we move together. I love him. I know it now, and maybe I always have. The thought runs through my mind over and over, and I kiss his pale skin, his gasps sending shivers through me.

I won't let him leave me. Be snatched from me. My pace quickens, and Sherlock's hand grasps at my own, the IV tubing pulled taut. With each gentle, curving thrust I am uttering his name, internally vowing that I won't let this be the last time, can't let this be the last time. Sherlock groans my name, so quietly that I almost miss it - and then my hand around him is warm and wet, and he is trembling against my chest.

His release is my undoing and I close my eyes as I come, tilting my head back and swearing softly. I hold him as tightly as I can without hurting him, hoping that he knows I do not plan on letting him go.

 

  
** SHERLOCK **

We lay together for what feels like an hour afterwards, both nude and spent and not wanting to break the spell. It lingers around us, regardless; the unspoken acceptance. At least on my part. John has made it clear that he will not give up that easily. I almost wish I was able to do the same.

We clean up with wipes from the cabinet, and John dresses. He stays on the bed with me, stroking my hair as I lay against his chest.

I am beginning to feel better, and murmur that I wish I had coffee. John kisses my hair, tells me that there is a drinks machine down the corridor. Apparently the tea kept him sane whilst he was waiting for me to wake. I wonder if I were in his position, would I be able to sit calmly? The thought of being in his position is awful, and I do not think about it again. Losing John is unthinkable.

He instructs me to nap and ignores when I roll my eyes, kissing me on the cheek before he climbs out of my bed. I am improving, slowly but surely. I imagine in an hour or so, I should be able to get up and move around.

I humour him, and settle down into the pillows. John chuckles lightly at my obedience, before ducking out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.

I am half asleep when the nurse enters to change my IV bag, and try to wave her away. She scolds me for pulling at my tubing and I pretend to be more soundly asleep, certainly not in the mood for being patronised.

When John returns, I tell him to lock the door again. I cannot deal with medical staff at the moment. Impudent and unnecessarily bossy, all of them. He asks what I mean, and I tell him about the nurse. He has a steaming coffee cup in each hand, and pauses as he goes to set them down on the table. As I explain, his expression contorts into one of horror.

  
"Your next check is at 8pm.." he whispers, eyes swivelling to my new IV bag. "And you don't have a nurse."

 

\--  



	10. Taint

** SHERLOCK **

****

As John and I lock eyes, our gazes horrified, we both act at once. I tear the IV needle from my arm, a trickle of blood spilling from the broken skin, and he slams down the coffees, racing to the stand and tearing off the packet of fluid. I know that he is looking for a label, some clue as to what we are dealing with, but there will be none. Of course, Moran would not give us that advantage.

 

"How long-" John demands, looking to me, and I interrupt him.  
"Only minutes. John-"  
"But directly into the blood stream.  _Fuck_ -" He swears loudly and is clutching at the sides of his head, his expression furious and disgusted. I know that he is blaming himself, cursing himself for leaving, but it is not his fault. I asked him to go, and I did not prevent the 'nurse' from treating me.  
Blame is not my concern at the moment. I snatch at his wrist, pulling him close, my eyes searching his.

"John. Please - I can't die here. It will be officiated and I will be taken to the morgue." I am speaking quickly, not sure how long I have before the mystery substance kicks in. "The world will know, and you'll never be able to get me home. He'll come here. He'll take it."

My eyes are pleading, and I hate how desperate I sound. But it is John. I need him. I do not want to die in a hospital bed.  
I do not want my heart torn from my body in a hospital morgue. Despite my attempt at acceptance, I do not want to die.

John is nodding, and everything is rushed. He throws back my blankets, pushes the small table aside and hooks his arms around me. I lean into him and allow him to help me stand. I am still weak, and my muscles tremble. I do not dare to guess how long it will take me to recover from this impending death. All at once, I know that Moran is coming for me. The attack is too subtle.. no longer to present his creatively murderous prowess, but for purpose. 

 

We have to get out of here.

 

"Wait."  
John leaves me sitting on the edge of the hospital bed for a moment, running out of the room. I shiver in my thin paper gown, my eyes finding the discarded IV bag. What will it be? A paralytic? A hallucinogen? Will I die in a haze of colours and patterns, screaming out for help?

John returns with a wheelchair, and I am too determined to escape to feel any mortification at my lack of mobility. He lowers me into it gingerly, and then he is behind me, running with the chair, panting against the extra weight. We race down the corridor, and I imagine that if we weren't so desperate to get home, if I weren't so weak, I might find this scenario comical. 

 

We scream around corners and wait agitatedly for the lift, the other passengers appearing rather startled when we crash inside and are then nearly thrown out by John's determination as it arrives at the bottom floor.

 

We reach the entrance, and I feel a sense of foreboding. I have begun to feel dizzy, and my eyes are itching as if coated in powder. I rub at them irritatedly, and John pushes the wheelchair over to a taxi, the driver climbing out to help.

"No!" John calls, a stern command. "I'm fine! Get in, I need you to drive fast."

He bends, slipping an arm beneath the crook of my legs and another around my back. He lifts me to his chest and then in one swift movement, into the car with him. I am clutching onto him, the world spinning wildly in front of my eyes.

 

"John-" I gasp, "It's starting."

 

 

\--

** JOHN **

****

Sherlock's words panic me, but I don't let on. I call the address to the driver and he speeds away thankfully fast, allowing me to turn my attention back to him.  
"You're fine, Sherlock." I soothe, my fingers stroking across his warm forehead, "You're alright, see? I'm here. We'll be home, soon."

I hope that I sound more reassuring than I feel; my heart hammers in my chest and when I discreetly check Sherlock's pulse, I realise that his is doing the same. No.. worse. His heart is absolutely bloody racing, and I frown and swallow, looking down into his eyes.  
"He's coming." He whispers raggedly, and I frown, fingers stroking across his cheek.

His gaze is darting back and forth, and I'm no longer sure if he can see me.

"John?" He whines, and I brush back dark curls, soothing and shushing and trying to keep the shaking panic from my voice. I could never, never get used to this. Somehow this seems even more brutal than the lances, the bullet and the knife. Having him cry out my name, confused and scared..

"I'm here," I reassure, "Hang in there, sweetheart."  
I've never called him anything like that before; Sherlock isn't one that welcomes pet names, and in any other situation he might grimace at me, bite back some scathing comment. But right now he clutches onto my hands, his palms cold and sweating, and I can't stand it, can't stand this.

 

I will kill Moran.

 

He keeps rubbing at his eyes, and I realise that I recognise the symptom. Potential cyanide poisoning. His racing heartrate fits too, and the confusion. The poison is brutal and old fashioned, but our assailant seems to love the theatrical. I feel disgusted, outraged, helpless. Even as I hold Sherlock close, he begins to shake with a seizure, and I grit my teeth against hot, angry tears. The driver pulls up outside Baker Street, but I can't get him out until he stops shaking, only able to position him correctly and hold him still so that he doesn't hurt himself.

 

I don't pay the driver, and he doesn't seem to care, obviously keen to get Sherlock out of his cab as quick as he can. He stills at long last, groans my name again with a bitter anguish and I slip my arms beneath him once more, relieved that he is still with me. The driver opens my door and I am half running up to the flat door, unsure of where I find my strength. The staircase takes longer, and I am shushing and soothing him in my arms, promising that he will be alright, promising that I won't let him hurt any more. 

 

My own voice is cracking and shaking and my muscles ache and strain from carrying him. When I am finally able to stagger inside and set him down on the sofa, I realise that he is gone. He has died, somewhere between leaving the car and getting inside.

 

I give a wail of anguish, and in my stress I swipe a row of books from the desk. They fly, sprawling heavily onto the floor and I stand heaving harsh breaths, my hands curled into fists. Sherlock has been torn from me again. Died in my arms. Again.  I'm furious, and anger is pulsing through my veins, hot and consuming.

 

' _He's coming_ ', he'd said, so hurt and panicked.  
And I believe him.

 

I look forward to it.

 

 

 

\--

 

Things have to be sorted out, and they have to be sorted out fast. 

Pulling my phone from my pocket, I sit down beside where Sherlock is laying, and run a hand distractedly over his cold, still cheek.  When Lestrade picks up, I start speaking and don't stop until he agrees to my demands. He needs to understand the gravity of the situation, but I have to conceal Sherlock's secret. I tell him that he's got himself into trouble, and that someone is coming for him. To hurt him. Probably kill him. I add that he's ill, pretty god damn ill. No way to defend himself.

 

I don't mention that he's laying next to me on the sofa with a ghostly pallor and a - he's back - weak pulse. He won't wake up for hours, maybe days. I know that much. Lestrade is full of questions. He asks me about the crime scenes that he's followed us to; about mystery blood stains and Molly Hooper and something crazy that the female carving witness is saying. My voice becomes pleading for a moment, and I ask him to trust me.

Begrudgingly, he agrees. He sends over three officers to watch over Baker Street.

 

My next call is to Mycroft, and I am even vaguer with him. He'd try to force his involvement if I told him that Sherlock was ill or in danger, so instead I tell him that we are on a case. That we need Baker Street completely cut off. Of course, it will be a nightmare to sort out, but Mycroft has the power. He speaks with me suspiciously, and I know he is aware of being kept in the dark. Surprisingly, he doesn't force me to tell him a thing. Perhaps he too is trusting me.

 

It's a scary thought. So many people, trusting me with Sherlock's life.

I'm not sure if I trust myself. I only know that if he's going out of this world, he isn't going out alone.

 

With Mycroft and Lestrade's help sorted, I have to prepare the flat. My heart thuds in my chest, a precious reminder of how little time Sherlock has. Still, I move slowly. I can't afford to do anything wrong. I have to try my hardest for him.

 

I start in the bedroom - my bedroom - pushing my tall bookcase in front of my window. It blocks out the light almost completely, and means that any 'smashing through the glass' stunt will be bloody painful and hopefully hindered enough for me to act. The thing is heavy, and afterwards I am gasping and sweating. But I can't afford to rest yet.

I dig around under my bed and pull out the small brown case that holds my gun. I crank open the chamber and fill it with as many bullets as it can take, before snapping it shut and slipping it into my pocket. I also equip myself with my old pen knife, though I'm not sure how much use it will be. I remind myself that there are thick, sharp knives in the kitchen - ones that it would be foolish and dangerous to carry around. But if needs be, I can make a run for them.

 

I wonder if the thought of running for my life - and fighting for Sherlock's - should scare me. It doesn't. I am so full of anger, a simmering fury that contorts and stretches within me at the thought of Moran's smug face. My fingers ghost over my gun and I am determined. I cannot afford to accept that Lestrade's men will catch him when he tries to reach us, or that Mycroft's roadblock will make him easy to spot. The fact that he is one of Moriarty's missionaries is frightening enough. But maybe, just maybe, we'll come out of this alive.

 

My final task is the most simultaneously motivating and heartrending. I lean over the sofa and lift Sherlock again, gentle as I hold him to my chest. He is limp and pale, and does not make a sound as I carry him through to my bedroom. The bookcase blocks out all light, so I turn on the light, dimly illuminating the room. It creates a cosy glow, and I am undressing Sherlock carefully, tossing the crinkled paper gown into the corner and pressing a soft kiss to the bare skin of his chest. Sherlock does not wear pajamas, but I find a soft flannel pair in a cupboard that must be an old gift. I dress him slowly and carefully.

 

I don't want to hurt him. He's already been through so bloody much.

And it stops today. Whatever happens, it will stop today. That much is certain.

 

I lower him onto the pillows and fold the duvet over him. I am struck again by how beautiful he is and how innocent he looks. It fuels my need to protect him.

 

I dig around in my old medical bag from Afghanistan, and I find an IV bag and temporary tubing. I can't count the amount of times that I've used them, but not within the last five years. Somehow, it seems more significant now.

I mix packets of glucose syrup into water and fill the IV, tying it haphazardly to the tall lamp that sits beside my bed. With little resistance from his skin, I slip the cannula into Sherlock's arm and connect the tubing. I am hoping that this will help him; it seemed to do something at the hospital. Even as a doctor, I can't help him. Medically speaking, he shouldn't be alive. 

 

I wonder for a moment if he will wake up and frown at my use of an IV, so soon after he was poisoned through the same method. And then I wonder if he will wake up at all. If Moran will perhaps kill me as insignificantly as a fly on his windshield, before proceeding to cut out my friend's heart..

I won't let it happen. I can't. Sherlock won't die, not again, not in this flat and not on my watch.

 

I lean down and brush the hair from Sherlock's face, just looking at him. I realise that he was right in the hospital for us to say our goodbyes, if only with our bodies. Of course he was right. When is Sherlock ever wrong? Of course, I hope that this time, he is.

I kiss him softly, and hear a squad car pull up. I walk to the window and nod to the three officers, armed to the teeth and positioning themselves at the entrance to Baker Street. One of the men comes inside, and I hear him climb to the middle of the staircase to patrol.

 

I return to Sherlock, and all is silent. All is calm. For now.

 

A gentle fury burns within me, feral and anticipatory.

  
Moran will get what he deserves for the lances. For the bullet and for the knife. For what I suspect was the IV crammed full of cyanide.  
He won't take any more from Sherlock.

 

I sit and I wait.

 


	11. Drawl

**JOHN  
  
**

It seems only minutes after I have gotten everything ready, but it must be about an hour. The road outside is deserted, though cars honk angrily at the inconvenience at each end. I can hear the two policemen outside talking to each other, and the one in the hall pacing every now and then.

I sit beside Sherlock on the bed, my eyes on his peaceful face and my fingers curled around my gun. The minutes tick past slowly.

 

And then.. 

A loud thud. I sit up straight, frowning before standing and taking a few steps to the door. I realise that I haven't heard the two men downstairs speak for a while, and when I venture out of the bedroom and look out of the window, they're gone. 

"Aw - you weren't fond of them, were you?"

The voice is lazy and lilting, and I spin immediately, my hands flying back to my gun. The front door is open and Moran leans in the doorway, arms folded across his chest and a half grin on his face. He looks like I remember from the other day, all blacks and artfully messed hair, but there is a bored confidence in his expression. A black briefcase hangs from one hand, and he raises one eyebrow as I aim my gun at him.

 

  
_You bastard. You bloody bastard. You're going to get what you deserve._

"What?" I spit, at a loss for what else to say, still aiming the gun between his eyes. Even from this far across the flat, I'm confident that I could hit that exact spot.

"Your policemen. Pretty useless, really. Sorry about that." He murmurs, and pushes himself up from the wall, the briefcase swinging from his fingers as he walks towards me.

"Stop. Stay where you are. I'll shoot you - don't think for a second that I won't.."

 

Moran sighs, stops at the desk in front of the window. He sets down the briefcase and clicks the hinges, opening the leather monstrosity and turning his back to me. I still have my gun pointed at him, and yet he seems completely bloody indifferent.

"No. You won't. You would have done it by now." He drawls, and my mouth goes dry as he turns halfway to face me, exposing the contents of the case.  
Knives. Sharp, silver knives of all different sizes. And at the back - a.. is that a  _machete_?

 

"Ah." He continues, eyes glinting as he follows my gaze. "You like that one? That's what I'm going to use." He pauses, and then moments later leans towards me, whispering. "You know."

He pats his fist against the left side of his chest, two beats and then silence. Two beats and then silence. He's talking about Sherlock's heart. He's mocking me.

 

My fingers tighten on the gun and I feel bloody furious. I should shoot him in the chest right this second, end it all, watch the life drain from his body. God knows, I'd love nothing more. I think of Sherlock, sleeping peacefully in my bed and look to the bedroom. My resolve strengthens.

 

And then the gun is gone, and I am swearing, clutching my throbbing fingers and looking back at him in shock. He holds some kind of whip, which he sets back into his case, before balancing my gun on his palm. 

"Nice. Lovely little piece you've got here, John." He murmurs, raising his eyebrows and seemingly impressed. "Ah well." He adds, before cocking open the chamber and emptying my bullets. He tosses the empty gun behind him, and I grimace, my fingers curling into throbbing fists by my sides.

 

  
_Oh, fuck._

"Oh John. Look at us both, fighting for our men. For our leaders."

He looks at me for just a moment with a smile, before running his fingers along a knife edge, still held in the case. I answer before I even realise what I'm saying, and the words are like bile in my throat, angry and venomous.

 

"He's not my leader." I narrow my eyes at him slightly. "I don't _need_  a leader."

 

Moran looks up at me sharply, his fingers falling away from his case. I've touched a nerve, obviously - but then seconds later he is calm again, and even gives a short, soft laugh.

Turning to me, he folds his arms loosely across his chest, takes a step closer.  
"Come now, John. Everyone needs a leader. Are you telling me you're your own boss? Or maybe even - Sherlock's boss?"  
He chuckles again, and then his face contorts into a mock pout, shaking his head at me.

"I've killed him - what? Maybe three, four times. And not once were you able to stop me!"

I close my eyes, gritting my teeth against the white hot anger that surges through me at his words, at the third chuckle that follows them. Moran begins to circle me, the flat heel of his shoes clacking ominously on the hard wood floor.

 

"What is it, John? Does it upset you - that you can't protect him?"

 

I take my own slow steps, hands still in firm fists at my sides. I back myself towards my bedroom door, as if standing guard over Sherlock. Moran continues, examining his fingernails as he speaks, as if none of this is of any consequence to him.

"That I'm going to gut him? Take out his pretty little heart?"

 

He stops, as if struck by a brilliant thought. His fingers are splayed on his hips and he's relaxed. Bloody relaxed. He's not scared of me, and Christ, I think that might be the most terrifying thing about him. Until he speaks again.

"You know - I have a great idea." He turns to me, his eyes alight with excitement like a bloody three year old at a funfair. He claps his hands together with a smile and I meet his gaze stonily, my back still against the bedroom door. "I'm going to turn it into ashes. Let them fall like snow-" He makes a flourishing, sprinkling motion with one hand. "-onto Jim's grave. Poetic, isn't it?"

 

Bile rises in my throat, and I am grimacing, growling my words.  
"You won't touch him."

"You know, your loyalty is  _touching_."  
Moran turns again, and continues to pace. I am backed against the door, and he's getting closer. I feel furious, and worry that the pent up aggression may get the better of me. It will make me clumsy when I am already so clearly at a disadvantage. I try to keep my cool, my fingers moving infinitesimally closer to my pocket. If I can just get my pen knife..

"The Boss would have liked someone like you on our side, John. Well. Maybe not. He did have me, after all."

"And you're as loyal as they get." I spit, unable to help myself and dying to buy more time. Another flicker of something unrecognisable flits across his face, and it is clear that Moriarty is a touchy subject. Moran's eyes swivel to the wooden shelving beside where I stand, and he smiles again as he notices Sherlock's heart shaped bullet, my remark seemingly forgotten.

"Aw. Did you like that, Johnny? I got a kick out of it." He is relaxed again, swinging his arms faintly as if lost in memory and I want to bloody hit him. Instead, I inch closer to my knife. "And the heart lights.. I really wanted to arrange my spears in a similar shape, but I just didn't have the time."

He sighs melodramatically, demonstrating the shape in the air and I grit my teeth. His eyes find my pocket, and immediately I know that he knows about my search for my knife. A ripple of disappointment runs through me, followed by an anger worse than before. I can't let this happen. I can't let him bloody win. Winning would mean losing Sherlock. Losing my life, maybe. Probably. I'm not sure which is worse. 

 

He is hesitating, and I'm almost certain that he's waiting for me to lunge at him. It's what he wants. It's how he can take me down.

 

"Oh come  _on_ , John." He groans, examining his fingernails again. "We both know it's killing you."   
Moran begins a slow walk back to his briefcase, and I swallow as he takes out a small, jagged knife, beginning to run his fingers along the edge as he speaks.  
"Planning those attacks was very enlightening." He glances at me boredly for only a second. "You don't think I've seen you die with him, each time? You don't think I was sitting behind a screen, laughing every time the light left  _both_  of your eyes? It was quite beautiful, really."

He takes a step towards me, turning the knife between his fingers with an easy grace that is unsettling.  
"Just let me take him, one last time, John."  His voice drops to a low murmur, and he looks up and smiles at me innocently. "I'll even let you keep the body. Well. Most of it."

He's still talking when I take my chance, the pen knife flying from my fingers as I finally choose the moment to tear it from my pocket. My heart is hammering hard, and Moran barely flinches as he catches it. Catches the blade in mid air, only a trickle of blood seeping from his callused fingers. 

When he looks back at me, his eyes are sharper, even more excited, and his voice is lower and fervent.

"Oh, now. You shouldn't have done that. There's your first mistake." He flips my knife closed and sinks it into his pocket, still talking to me. I am unarmed, now. Completely. Part of my mind is screaming at me to run, to do what I can to save myself, but that would mean leaving Sherlock and that isn't even an option anymore. "After I make you such a nice offer.." Moran continues, and I wonder if I'd even make it out of the door.

 

He takes a few steps towards me, his mouth settling in a faint grimace.  
"Perhaps I'll kill you first. Let him wake up to that."  His voice takes on a sing-song trill as he adds; "More than one way to burn a heart!"

I clench my fists. If I'm going out, I'm going out fighting.

 

"Oh - I like that idea." Moran lilts, taunting me with his eyes heavenward. "Perhaps then he'd even lay down for me? Let me take him easily?" He winks, and I am furious again, rage building in my chest. "Well, when he's got nothing left to live for.."

"You  bastard!" I roar, leaning towards him, my fists clenched at my sides. He could kill me easily, of course he could. I no longer care. It's me that has nothing left to lose, me that won't see the light of day; won't see Sherlock wake up, tousled and sweetly bemused from sleep. "You're nothing but Moriarty's _dog._ He didn't care for you! He killed himself  _just to get at Sherlock,_ when he supposedly knew that he couldn't even  _die_?!"

 

A bitter chuckle bursts from me, and I am enjoying myself now, as much as I can be in such a situation. Moran's expression is stony, his mouth narrowing into a thin line and his eyes hard as he stares me down. I continue, my voice trembling with rage.

 

"That's how much he wanted to be with you - be  _around_  you.. That's how much he  _cared_  for you-"

"YOU'RE WRONG." Moran bellows, spit flying from his mouth as he takes an angered step towards me, his eyes wild. "This was always the plan."

I laugh bitterly, somehow forcing myself to keep my confidence in the face of his aggression.  
"Some plan. Leaves you alone to do all his bidding? He was  _bored_  of you. He must have been. Even  _I_  know that-"

"YOU'RE WRONG." He screams again, before he stills. Just suddenly. He is motionless, with his eyes closed. The stillness is slightly unnerving, like a bloody robot, just switched off. I freeze too, my heart hammering as I stare at him, and eventually he lifts his head. To my chagrin, he looks calmer, and laughs softly at my bemused expression, straightening his suit and seemingly trying to gather his thoughts.

"Almost had me there, didn't you John? Baiting me like that." He gives me a disapproving frown, shaking his head. Silence falls for a moment, and my fingers twitch at my sides. I don't know where to go from here; what my plan is. I don't know how I'm going to get out of this. Being honest with myself, I know that I won't.

 

Moran gives a sigh, long and heavy before picking up his calm drawl, every trace of his violent anger lost.

"Well, this has been fun, John. But - must get on."

"You're not getting near him." I say defiantly, my voice low and eyes hard on his.

Moran flips the knife in his hand, catches it just as deftly. I swallow, and he smiles.  
"Oh - didn't you hear me? I changed my mind."

I blink at him, my body tense and taut. Waiting. He continues after a few beats of silence.

"I'm going to break his heart before I burn it."

_Oh, hell._

"You're first, love."

 

\--

 


	12. Sink

**JOHN**

Everything happens very quickly.

 

Almost as soon as his threat is out of his mouth, I'm running, pushing him as hard as I can. It's a poor effort, but what more can I do? I have too much pride to stand and let myself be gutted alive. And the thought of Sherlock finding me sends a spike of adrenaline through my veins.

 

Somehow, I've caught him off guard and Moran gives a grunt of shock as he is shoved sideways. Moments later he is recovering, straightening and spinning to face me. I know what he's going to do just a split second before he does it, and I dive behind the sofa the moment the jagged knife leaves his hand.

 

Even as I clatter painfully to the floor and knock all the air out of my chest, I start crawling on my front, using my arms to pull myself around. Any second, he will be pacing over, collecting his thrown knife. I wonder for a moment how many times he's missed - if ever. My heart is pounding in my chest and for all I know, I could only have seconds to live.

 

But I can't give in. Not while Sherlock lies next door, peaceful and  _alive._

The silence is ominous, but there is a roaring in my ears that I can't dispel. It's a wonder that I hear it; the quiet slip of a blade against expensive fabric - he's taking another knife out of the case. Footsteps begin to advance towards the sofa, slow and calculated and I know he thinks that he has me.

 

Thinking on my feet, I back myself against the wall and brace my feet against the sofa. As soon as he gets close, I push out as hard as I can, the combination of Sherlock's tattered old sofa and the adrenaline surging through me sending it rocketing towards him. 

 

I hear the grunt as it hits Moran, but it must only have unsteadied him - I don't care. I'm on my feet, running across the room, heading for the kitchen or the briefcase, I hadn't quite decided.

 

I don't need to decide.

 

It happens suddenly. Moran has me, fingers locking around my wrist and he must have lunged from where he was stood. I try and twist my arm out of his grasp and pull hard, sending myself sprawling onto the floor.

 

A searing pain shoots through my side and I am pressing my hands to just below my rib, swearing and gasping at the white hot agony as the blood seeps through my fingertips. He's stabbed me; but it isn't serious. Despite the spray of blood, it's a surface wound. Still, he has thrown me for a moment, and it's all he needed.

 

I begin to scramble away along the wooden floor, but within a second a booted foot is on the flat of my back, and I scream, unable to help the throb of my new wound as he bears down with a breathlessly excited laugh.

 

"You thought - it'd be that -  _easy_?" He rasps, and I grit my teeth against hot tears, the pain threatening to send them streaming down my face.  _Not today. No. He's not worth it. Nothing could hurt that much._  


Moran is standing over me, and leans down to grab roughly at one of my arms, turning me back over to face him. Another wrench throbs through the cut and I grimace at him, flinching as he holds his knife aloft. For a moment, I think that this is it.. That he'll swing it in an arc towards my face, my chest.. But instead he tucks it away.

 

"If there's ever been a toy that deserved to be broken, it's you." He hisses, and I stare up at him, uncomprehending until his fist finds its way to my face for the first time.

 

I wonder if the crack just sounds loud to me, or if it does indeed resound around the room as Moran punches me in the face. I barely have time to gasp before he lays into me again, his next fist catching my cheek, my eye, puncturing my lip. He bends over me and I am choking on my blood, the throbbing pain searing through my features, my skin torn and bloody. I try and writhe out of his grasp, near blind as I splutter, seeing red and white and red once more, Sherlock's name at the forefront of my mind.

 

But Moran is unrelenting and cruel. 

His knee is hard as stone as he brings it up and into my bollocks, and I can't help but cry out for the first time. Until now, I have been stoically quiet, taking the beating even as I try to jolt and escape his grasp. But Christ - the pain has me biting down on my tongue, paralysed and whimpering. 

 

"Let him go." comes the voice,  _Sherlock'_ s voice. I can't see, my vision blurred as my eyes water, but he must be standing against the bedroom door, keeping himself upright somehow. Maybe he clutches onto the door handle, or maybe his fingers are clinging to the wall. His words are slurred, more one long syllable than a real command, but I can't think, can't speak for the thrill of fear that instantly runs through me at the sound of him.

_No. Sherlock - run, please. Get out. Save yourself. I'll keep him away. Go, go please._   


"Sheeeerlock!" Moran sings, his fists letting up for a moment. I try and blink away the blur marring my vision, and the first thing I see is the blood coating his knuckles as they hang above me. He is half straddling me, his knee at my groin presumably in case I try to get away again, and it is all I can do to breathe through the pain. The voices around me are muffled, but I listen as best I can, determined not to be taken by the darkness that circles.

"How good of you to pop out and watch the show." Moran continues, his voice lilting sweetly. I hear a faint scuffle, and wonder if it is Sherlock against the wall, unable to keep himself standing or even conscious.   
"Aw, are we sleepy?" Moran croons, and I take my chance. Lunging forwards, I grasp at the knife hilt in his pocket and toss it away, sending it skittering across the room.

  
"For fuck's  _sake-_ " Moran spits, losing himself as he sends a hand straight across my face, promptly followed by a winding punch to my stomach. His fingers twine harshly in my hair and he half drags me across the floor, standing above me as he sends a couple of well aimed kicks, another to my stomach and of course, the crotch. I am seeing stars, but refuse to cry out, the harsh impacts drawing only strangled gasps from my throat.

 

Even so, I hear Sherlock panickedly slurring my name, hear him beginning to clamber across the room and knock into things in the process. Moran is laughing and my heart is breaking.

 

"No - Sherlock!" I call, and my voice sounds foreign to my own ears. My words are thick and laboured and I turn my face to spit blood onto the floor, rasping blindly as I yell for him. "Get out! Get away!"

My words earn me another swift kick, this time cracking a rib or two as I curl into myself and swear weakly through another mouthful of blood. My arm is wrenched back, and Moran sits on my chest, the pain agonising. I hate myself for it, but I scream and he laughs, is laughing, is cackling.

 

"Please - Sherlock-" I shout out blindly, my words slurring into something unrecognisable. Moran pins a hand to my throat and cuts off whatever I had been about to say. I can't remember after a few moments. He is cutting off the circulation, and I reach up to scrabble at his hands, my attempts weakening as my vision begins  to haze. 

This is it. This is how I die. 

I'm kicking out with my legs, and Moran has stopped laughing, applying pressure with both hands. I'm dying. I know I'm dying, and I feel as though my head might explode, my heartbeat pounding behind my eyelids as I choke out Sherlock's name, one last time..

 

And then Moran's weight is gone, the air flooding my windpipe. Colour explodes back into my vision and I am coughing, rolling onto my side and spitting more blood onto the hardwood, blinking blearily to try and locate him..

 

I see them almost immediately, and I am working through a haze of pain and adrenaline, my chest still heaving to drag air into my burning lungs. Sherlock must have thrown himself at Moran, sending him toppling from where he was sitting on me. Now, Moran is righting himself, Sherlock too weak to fight back as he is grabbed by the wrist and half dragged along the floor.

 

Moran is searching for his knife.

 

As quickly as I can, I stagger blindly over to the desk, my vision bleary and my lips slick with blood. My chest threatens to cave in on itself, sharp pains attacking me from every angle as I run my wet hands over the briefcase, leaving red smears on the leather. With a soft scrape of blade on fabric, I have pulled the machete free of its home and am staggering back over to where Moran is reaching for his own knife on the floor.

"NO." I roar, too delirious in agony to think of anything else to command his attention as I rush towards them.  Moran's head snaps up to look at me, and within a second he has Sherlock held squarely in front of him, a human shield. 

 

I stop, my resolve wavering as I come face to face with my friend - the word so pitifully weak for what we are, what we could have been.. what we could still be.

Sherlock's eyes are glassy, and he is weak, still hanging on to the edge of consciousness.   
"John?" He moans lightly, and I freeze, the machete still held aloft. I nod, my eyes soft, trying to reassure him that it's me. That I'm here.

 

And that I'm sorry.

 

With one swift lunge, I sink the long blade through his stomach, his eyes going wide with shock as they find mine. Blue eyes fade to grey, and he falls forwards onto me, blood welling between his lips. 

 

As I catch him, he reveals the figure of Moran behind him, his own eyes wide and uncomprehending at the stab wound sinking through his own black shirt. The blade has been wrenched out as Sherlock falls forward, and Moran laughs, a short cackle that speaks of peace and misfortune. Blood bubbles out of his mouth, and he crumples as I watch, eyes glassy on the ceiling.

 

Moran is dead.

 

I too fall slowly to the floor, bringing Sherlock's body with me. My arms are around him, and I am trembling. I am hurting, but I have saved him. I have killed him, and yet I have saved him.   
With shaking fingers, I pull the machete out of him, the entirety of the long blade slick with blood. To pull it out, I must drag Moran's blood back through Sherlock, and I grimace at the sheer dishonour of it all.

 

It's about all I can do before I pass out, my body curled around his own.


	13. Wake

 

** SHERLOCK **

  
I don't regain consciousness for two weeks. 

 

When I finally come around, it is as if I have merely dreamed it all; John, bloodied and hurt on the floor of the flat. Moran showering him with kicks and punches. The rage I felt was utterly overwhelming, and yet my body was dizzy and confused. Useless.The memories come in hazes, specific moments outlined and others lost forever, or so it seems. One sticks in my mind. 

 

John; my hope and love. Recognising him, at the unfortunate moment that he chose to plunge the blade through my stomach. 

 

I am the first to admit, that his timing could have been better. Of course, I see that he had no choice. It was both a logical reaction and the obvious route, but it does not stop his haunted expression from being the first thing I see when I awake.

 

"Oh, thank God. Thank God." He whispers, a hand combing the hair back from my forehead before he peppers kisses on my cheeks. I find it within myself to chuckle, and I do not ache. This is a good sign. Finally, I have recovered from the brutal events of those few days. I cannot say the same for John. 

 

His face is black and blue; bruises flowering his cheekbones and jaw, and fading black eyes. He has cuts, but they are healed and the bruises too are yellowing like Autumn leaves, a season passed. I deduce myself that I have been out for two weeks, long before John tells me, his voice cracked and broken.

"I thought we were done for." He says softly, a chuckle taking the haunting edge from his words.

 

"He hurt you." I note disapprovingly, raising a hand to skim my fingers over his battered face, a concerned wrinkle between my brows. An IV needle tugs at my arm, and I look down at it pointedly. John assures me that it has helped me get better. Kept me hydrated, at least. I nod, though I am disgruntled.

 

"Sherlock.." John begins again, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. "About.. about what happened.."  
His adam's apple bobs lightly in his throat, and John's lips tremble as they press into a flat line. He has suffered greatly through all of this, and it is written in every line of his face.

"No." I say quietly, and my smile is soft but determined. "It was necessary, John."

"But.."

I slip my hand to the nape of his neck and pull him in, the taste of his lips on mine a delicacy that has been lost to me for fourteen days. John is careful at first, but after a few moments he is kissing me in earnest, before I pull back breathlessly to ask.

"The body?"

"Mycroft and Lestrade."

He frowns just slightly, and I guess what has happened. It is likely the pair argued about what to do; whilst Mycroft would be in favour of covering the entire business up, Lestrade would be more inclined to 'investigate', and truly file away Moran's death honestly. But of course, there is nothing honest about my situation.  

As John hasn't mentioned any negotiation with the police, I have to assume that Mycroft has won this time. After all, a nod from the Government can cover up most minor crimes. Murder - or I suppose, manslaughter, with a good lawyer- would be a bigger ask, but I have no doubt that Mycroft is capable of covering up such a thing. I wonder if my brother is now aware of my situation, or even the D.I. I rather hope not. I am finished with this entire, terrible business, as amusing as it was in the beginning.  
  
"It's alright, Sherlock." John says quietly, leaning forward to graze his thumb over my cheek. "It's over now. It's all.. We can go back to normal."  
  
"Molly?" I ask half heartedly, and he nods with a half smile.  
  
"She's fine. Bit shaken, but she's been back at work for a week and a half."  
  
"And you..? How did you..?"  
  
John's voice is soothing, almost patronisingly gentle as he explains what happened, but I do not complain. I need to know everything. To be able to move on from this, I need a resolution.  
"Lestrade showed up, found me unconscious and Moran dead. You were..alive. Breathing and everything. They were going to take you to hospital, but I came round when the paramedics showed up. Convinced them not to, somehow."  
  
I open my mouth to ask, but John pre-empts my question.  
"Two cracked ribs and some pretty bad bruising. A cut on my side, but it didn't catch anything vital. I'm fine Sherlock - better than I look, at least."  
  
"You look fine." I murmur, correcting myself at the last moment. I had been about to use the word 'perfect', but that may be too sentimental, even in our current situation. I don't want John to assume that I am still dazed.

We settle into a comfortable silence, John stroking my hair as I think. My thoughts are fraught with the trauma of those few days; weeks ago to John, yet only moments ago for me. It will take time to recover from this, but I am only thankful that we have each other.

"I don't want this any more." I sigh quietly, and John appears alarmed for a moment, his expression crumpling in hurt.

"What..?" He asks softly, and his expression is heart breaking. I am stumbling over my words in my attempt to correct him, and it is amusing even to me.

"No - not.. " I sigh again, exasperatedly this time. "John Watson, you are.." I swallow. "The most important.. person. To me. I care for you intensely. You must know that."

John relaxes, and I roll my eyes. He smiles slightly and presses another kiss to my lips. I imagine that he does know, now. After what we have been through.

 

"In fact, it was rather refreshing to die by your hand.." I add, and he swats me on the shoulder. The corner of my mouth quirks and my arm tightens around him, aware that this will likely always be a touchy subject. On the contrary, it was one of my easier deaths.

 

"No," I continue again, leaning back where I lay. "Immortality. I daresay I'm rather bored with it all."

John gives an exasperated chuckle, settling down beside me and he too looking up at the ceiling. He takes my hand, running his thumb over the backs of my fingers.

"And how exactly are you going to fix that?" He asks somewhat amusedly, and I take my time to answer. 

 

I feel as if I have it all. The world in the palm of my hand. To an outsider, all that would appear to have changed in my life is the introduction of the next stage of my relationship with John. Sharing ourselves with each other in ways that I had shamefully not envisaged. I have my John, I have my cases. I have friends, as little as I refer to them as such.

I have life, and I do not intend on wasting it.

"I expect when the time comes.."

 I begin, and John looks over at me, one eyebrow cocked questioningly. I take in the thin brush of his blonde eyelashes over the fading bruise on his cheek, the curve of his lips in half amusement and the relaxed relief in his eyes that has been there since I have awoken. I cannot imagine living without him now. I will not imagine it. Thanks to the combined efforts of Molly, myself and even Moran, I know that I will never need to.

 

Immortality is a fickle concept, after all.

"..You'll just have to burn out my heart."


End file.
